


Lycaon's Call

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Character Death, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dementors (Harry Potter) - Freeform, Drama, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Kidnapping, Magic, Politics, Riots, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of unfortunate events leaves the Beacon Hills werewolf pack lost in England, and facing Fenrir Greyback just after the disastrous Triwizard Tournament. Nothing is going to plan, and heads are rolling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pack

**Author's Note:**

> I feel I should clarify that Character Death warning. I have added the tag because someone dies in the first chapter, however they're not involved in the story, so I haven't added their name in tags. I have no plans to kill any of the teenagers tagged, though the fate of certain adults remain tenuous. There are also no parings currently planned, but if they appear later, they'll either be cannon, or more rare types. I hope some folks will enjoy the work despite that. This story is my baby, and I've become as fond of it as I am frustrated by it. :) Finally, the time is set right after Teen Wolf's Season 2, and I chose to push Harry Potter into the year 2012 or so, because I'm interested in dealing with events in OOTP. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Thank you also to my Beta, Argentum_ls, for brainstorming.

 

_*  
_

_Give me war, give me war,_

_*_

Perhaps one of the worst things about being a teenager, was feeling out of place. Outmatched, in a big, bad world that had decided it didn't need to play nice anymore. He shouldn't be thinking about this now, Scott told himself as he ran full tilt through the woods and gleeful howls echoed behind him. Stiles would be telling him to focus, and do something practical like call for help, but Scott had lost his phone miles ago. The tallest Alpha stomped on it, shattering the screen beneath his boot.

Now, as he leaped over ferns, Scott couldn't stop thinking that it was terribly unfair being sixteen. His dad used to make him play poker without explaining the rules, and then laugh when he failed. That was what being sixteen felt like ever since he was bitten. He didn't know why the Alphas were chasing him, but he did know it wasn't about him. Not really. It was about Derek, and Peter. It was about adults, playing games with each other and using him because he was young, and didn't know what to do, and that made him easy to abuse.

He landed on a rough slope, claws digging into the earth while his eyes flared yellow, giving life to his fury and fear. Behind him the pounding feet came closer, crushing summer leaves in their hunt. He took a breath and leaped up, scrabbling on the rocks for purchase as he tried to climb up the slope. His side pinched and the long slash on his ribs tore open again, singing with pain. The marks on his face did the same as he grimaced, and fresh, hot blood slid over his bruised mouth and onto his tongue.

Scott hauled himself over the final lip of stone with a grunt, just as the biggest Alpha reached the ground below him. The Alpha grinned up at him, teeth gleaming in the dark, as Scott knelt, panting for breath. He'd been chased half the night and his legs felt like jell-o. When he staggered upright again they folded underneath him, and he landed face first in dirt just as another werewolf appeared out of the shadows before him. He swore, and backed up as the new Alpha gnashed his fangs.

“Big teeth,” Scott whispered in a daze, heart racing.

“All the better to eat you with,” the Alpha growled. More werewolves emerged from the trees. The scraping of claws on stone heralded the arrival of the last one, who'd climbed up after Scott and was now crouched over the lip of rocks.

Scott's breath hitched, fatalistic resolve settling in his soul as the pack closed in.

*

Scott hadn't shown up for lunch.

Not that it mattered to Isaac. They didn't have an agreement or anything. They weren't, you know, like friends. Not really. Anyway, Isaac wasn't a good person, so he didn't expect other people to be. Isaac didn't really owe Scott anyway. He didn't owe Erica and Boyd either, and it kind of galled him that it stung so much when they didn't come back. He'd secretly hoped that, after everything, they'd return to him, but that was stupid. They probably had their feet kicked up, hair blowing in the wind as they sped down a hot, summer highway, and he couldn't really blame them. He'd have done the same as Erica, run and never look back, if it hadn't been for Scott.

Isaac picked at his food, his leg jiggling under the table. Lunch was almost over. Isaac usually saw Scott somewhere by now. Maybe he had to miss class. Or he was smart and skipped the last day. Why come to school when your exams were done and all you did was play hangman on the blackboard? Isaac's stomach wasn’t buying it though. He felt full of worried, wriggling worms, instead of half digested chicken.

Two hands slammed down on the table before him, wrenching Isaac from his trance as surely as his father’s fist would have. He scowled up at the gawky form of Stiles who was looming over him, or trying to. The guy was looking at Isaac in what was supposed to be an intimidating glare, but really just made him look constipated.

“Okay, I give up, where is he?” Stiles demanded. The worms in Isaac's belly spilled over and started crawling up his spine. Stiles was talking about Scott. He had to be. Scott never went anywhere without Stilinski. They were like two halves of one brain, they simply didn't function without each other. Sometimes they didn't function with each other, but Isaac blamed Stiles for that. Something was very, very wrong.

“You haven't seen him either,” Isaac declared, leaning away.

“He hasn't called me in three days!” Stiles exclaimed, vibrating.

“So?” Isaac grimaced, not seeing the big deal about that.

Stiles, however, clearly felt that three days was momentous and needed even more exclamation because he held out three fingers and wiggled them. “Three days, Isaac! At first I figured, you know, he's probably just working, but his mom hasn't seen him since yesterday and she's freaking out. Which means my dad is freaking out, and now I'm freaking out because I can't reach his phone and he's not at school.”

That was the confirmation Isaac needed and he stood, gathering his backpack without a word. Screw the last day, he was going to find Scott.

“Did you find him?” Allison suddenly appeared at Stiles's side, with Lydia Martin behind her. Isaac twitched and inched away from the trio, his gut tightening with the memory of Allison, deadly and dressed in black like a funeral marcher, cleaving knives into his back. It was a stark contrast to how she looked now, enveloped in a pale sweater three times her size, and clunky hiking boots. She looked like she was trying to hide under her own clothes. Isaac cynically wondered if she had hidden knives there as well. Could she fit a crossbow under that skirt, he wondered, cocking his head.

“No, he's not here,” Stiles answered with a sigh. “And Isaac won't say where he is,” he accused.

“I don't know where he is,” Isaac hissed back, barely keeping a snarl from his frayed voice.

“You gotta know something,” Stiles insisted.

“What about Derek, or Peter?” Allison asked and Lydia stiffened minutely beside her. Isaac caught the smell of fear, quickly covered under simmering resentment.

“Should we really be talking about this here?” Lydia interrupted with an acerbic tone and looked pointedly around the cafeteria. Funny, Isaac thought, that she was the only one who seemed to notice they were in public. He stalked away, leaving his lunch uneaten on the table and Stiles, predictably, scrambled after him with an irritated noise.

“I don't talk with Peter,” Isaac answered once they were in the hall. Though, that was mostly because Scott didn't trust the man, and Isaac was more willing to trust Scott's instinct on that point than Derek’s. He found something disturbing about the older werewolf's mysterious and unapologetic air. That, and the scent of blood and rot that followed Peter wherever he went.

“What about Derek?” Stiles persisted. Isaac grit his teeth. If Stiles and company would just leave already, he could go find Scott. They knew what to assume by now. They weren't normal kids anymore, and they couldn't afford to say, oh he just forgot to call. Scott was in danger, until proven otherwise, and Isaac wasn't one to wait around.

“Derek sent a text telling me to stay in school today, that's it. I don't know anymore than you do,” he snapped and marched off, heading toward the school doors.

“Isaac. Isaac wait,” Allison called softly. Isaac ignored her, until her voice suddenly turned hard. “Isaac Lahey, stop!” she commanded, and Isaac froze on the spot, pulled up by instinct, and a long history of listening to hard voices give commands that were only disobeyed with a severe beating. Visions of the lock on a ice chest flashed in his brain, and when Isaac turned around and looked back at Argent he knew his eyes had turned yellow.

“What?” he challenged.

“Please, just... it’s Scott,” Allison faltered in a whisper, putting everything into those four little words. The night she’d hunted him down, the apology she couldn’t make, and he couldn’t accept. He didn't trust her, except when it came to Scott, and that’s what it all came down to of course. Scott McCall was the one person who could make Isaac tolerate the likes of Stilinski, work with Allison, and bring the snobbish queen Lydia down from her deposed throne to mingle with common, nasty nobodies like him. Scott was what they all had in common and Scott was missing.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I know.”

“So...” Allison trailed off.

“So, I'm ditching,” Isaac replied with a dangerous smile. “I'm gonna find him.”

Allison paused and looked back at their school, probably considering what dear old dad would say about missing class and spending time with monsters. Then she gave him a dark smile of her own.

“Let's go,” she agreed and marched off with Stiles scampering beside her. Isaac raised an eyebrow at the quick desertion of higher learning. Wasn’t he was supposed to be the only delinquent here? He was especially surprised when Lydia went with them.

“You too?” he goaded as she passed.

Lydia flipped her hair at him with a sharp, condescending look. “Please, I have a five point oh. I can actually afford to miss a day.”

“And if anyone asks, you can pass it off as the trauma from a poor little rich girl,” Isaac sneered at his old crush and Lydia looked at him with flashing eyes.

“You'd know all about that, wouldn't you,” she added in a false tone. Isaac gulped and stuck his hands in his pockets as he walked.

“Well I just... didn't think you and Scott were close enough for ditching school.”

“I'm not getting left in the car again,” she muttered to herself, before slamming open the school doors and stomping down the front steps. Isaac dropped it.

Allison was retrieving a long black bag from her car, and after she swung it over her shoulder the four of them clambered into Stiles beat up jeep. The engine revved and they peeled out of the school parking lot, Isaac sitting tense and on edge in the backseat while Lydia seethed beside him.

By mutual agreement Stiles drove them across town toward Derek's old house, testing the speed limit and endurance of his jeep until they were in the Beacon Hills reserve. The road wound a serpentine trail through the woods and dappled sunlight cast green shadows on their path. It was excessively cheerful weather, Isaac thought sourly, given their circumstances.

They were still a mile or so away from the property when Allison, who was looking out the window, suddenly said, “Stop the car.”

“What, why?” Stiles jerked in his seat, and was met by three angry yells when the car swerved on the road. “Oh, crap!” He quickly steered them straight with elbows locked in fright as Isaac swore.

“This is how you drive? How are you not dead?”

“Death doesn't like me! I'm too annoying,” Stiles replied, panicking.

“Just stop the car!” Allison repeated and Stiles ground to a halt on the side of the road, pulling the handbrake with a horrid screech.

“Okay, what are we stopping for?” Stiles waved his hands. Allison jumped from the car, and took her black bag with her, fingering the strap.

“We should go on foot from here.”

“Are you serious?” Lydia sighed, looked entirely unimpressed with that idea.

Allison nodded, very serious indeed. “Someone might hear the car.”

“Who?” Lydia demanded, “Aren't you going to see a couple of werewolves anyway?”

“No, she's right,” Stiles came around the jeep, looking unusually somber. “We shouldn't draw attention with the jeep. Scott told me some others came to town.”

“Others?” Lydia's lips were thin and unhappy, as apparently this was news to her.

“Yeah, Alphas like Derek, I guess.” Stiles explained, to distracted to notice Lydia’s glower. She looked ready to send steam out of her ears, Isaac thought, edging away from the group, but then she took a breath and jerked up her chin.

“Well, that's fantastic,” Lydia snapped.

“Do you think the Alphas got to Scott?” Stiles turned to Allison. “I mean, why would they?”

Allison fidgeted with her bag. “I don't know. Let's just go find Derek and ask him. Actually,” she paused and looked over at Isaac. “Maybe you should ask.”

Isaac ignored her. He just left his backpack in the car and stalked into the woods. The others followed, trying to keep up as he snuck through the underbrush, impatient to reach Derek. If there was one thing Isaac was sure of, in the shamble that had been left of his small life, it was that even with all the crap, Derek would never leave them to die alone. Not if he could help it. Derek would find Scott, but the closer he got to the Hale property the more he felt danger creeping up him.

The woods had gone quiet. Crows stopped cawing, and bushes ceased to rustle. The breaking of a twig under Lydia's fancy shoes came like the crack of a gun on an empty stage, and all three of them turned round to stare at her.

“What?” she whispered harshly. “I didn't plan on hiking today.” Stiles looked like he was going to have a seizure, caught between his adoration for Lydia and the utter frustration of losing points on stealth. Isaac rolled his eyes and left the three humans to blunder their way on without him, while he snuck off to the side.

The first thing he smelled was death. It had a very distinct odor, and working in a graveyard had left him more familiar with it than the smell of his own blankets, or his father’s aftershave. He tilted his nose up, sniffing delicately. It was new death, stale, but free of rot. Isaac had a nasty sinking feeling. It's not Scott, he told himself fiercely, and kept going towards the house, which he could now see through the trees. It couldn't be Scott.

There were more smells now, the warm trails of living people. Seven of them. Isaac crept forward on hands and knees until he was right on the edge of the Hales' decrepit yard. The burned and creaking building leaned above a gathering. Five strangers, reeking of power, had surrounded Derek and trapped him between the rotten porch, and them. It was like something out of a Clint Eastwood movie. A showdown, at high noon, with leaves dancing between glaring enemies.

Peter was leaning against the broken porch railing and speaking to the Alphas in his mild, sarcastic tone. “Of course I see your point, but I'm not the one you have to convince.” The older man slid his eyes onto his nephew, who was standing with claws at his sides before the semi-circle, like a man on trial.

“Well then, Alpha Hale,” The dark woman at the front of the pack made an imputent bow of her head. “What do you say. Isn't it a reasonable proposal?”

“For you, maybe.” Derek stood his ground, eyes flicking to each Alpha surrounding him and Peter. “You're not losing anything.”

The woman in front of the pack ran her tongue over her teeth, smiling. “No. It's all or nothing I'm afraid. Unless you have a counter offer.”

“For that?” Derek shifted his feet, looking wild.

She nodded. “Something or someone of equal value you could trade.”

“I'm sure your pack would be valuable enough for Greyback,” Derek snarled.

The woman threw her head back and laughed. A brittle sound in the lonely wood. “Oh it would, but you'd have to find us, beat us and deliver us. You can't even control a couple of teenagers. You've got nothing Hale. Nothing but yourself and some stupid pups, barely weened.”

“I just need time.”

“You had time,” one of the other Alphas rumbled.

Derek glared. “A few months was all I--”

“And you couldn't keep a pack together for that long,” the heckler replied, like a disinterested judge. The others chuckled darkly and Derek's normally stoic face cracked. Isaac didn't feel the resentment and rage he expected from Derek, but rather grief. That unnerved him more than anything else that was going on. Three Alphas began creeping forward with hungry eyes.

“Time’s up, Derek,” the woman declared. “Admit it. You lost any real claim on this territory when you ran with your sister, six years ago. Give up the range now, or give up your pack. It's that simple.”

Peter was staring hard at the back of his nephew's head, as if willing an answer into his skull. The Alphas shifted, their anticipation rising.

Then Derek settled, met the eyes of their leader and said, “No.”

The Alphas howled in glee and Peter smacked a hand over his face, looking pained. The woman crouched, snarling and Derek copied her, then rushed in. She lashed out and sent him flying into a nearby tree. Bark exploded behind him and he fell to the ground, leaving a sizable dent five feet up, before leaping into the the fray once more. Peter ducked behind one of the burnt pillars holding up the porch roof, and then tripped back when one of the other Alphas jumped onto the railing in front of him.

“Ah, lets not be hasty,” Peter held up a stalling claw, and when the Alpha paused he lashed forward and stabbed the other wolf in the eye. The Alpha screamed and fell back, holding his face, and Peter disappeared into the house. Two more Alphas ran after him.

Isaac leaped up, ready to help, only to have his back sliced open from behind. He yelled in pain and Derek spun around, eyes widening at the sound.

“Isaac? Damn it I told you --” Then he was cut off, his opponent not missing the chance to stab _him_ through the back as well. Derek choked, and tore himself away.

The fight didn't last long after that. Isaac couldn't get away from the Alpha before him, and was summarily dragged up the porch and into the house. The mansion stank, and in the front hall lay a fresh corpse with skin gone pale and blue. Isaac tripped over it as he was pushed through the door, and fell on hands and knees scrabbling back from the heap. The Alpha laughed, nudged the body with a careless foot and Isaac blanched as the dead face turned toward him, revealing the blank features of Jackson Whittemore.

Isaac stared. He'd seen lots of corpses in the mortuary, and sometimes in coffins when they broke open after landing in the grave's he'd dug, but it had never been someone he knew. Someone he went to school with. Someone who played Lacrosse, and sneered at Isaac in the halls was now lying cold at his feet. It seemed like a bad joke, and the only thing Isaac could think was, “Thank god, it's not Scott.” Then he was hauled up by the neck, shoved into the blackened front room and dropped next to Peter, who was kneeling on the floor and delicately touching his split lip. The older man looked as amused as he was pissed. Isaac himself could only gulp at the intimidating figures, while outside shouts came from the woods.

Soon, the fourth Alpha came in, dragging Allison and Stiles in each hand, and throwing them at Peter like trash. They landed with a grunt, Stiles complaining about bruised elbows and egos, while Allison fumbled with the bag on her shoulder, clutching the strap like it was a teddy bear. The Alpha turned away with a snort, but then stopped short in the doorway, his back to them all. Isaac sat up, tense. Then the Alpha turned, and waved an arm into the burned parlor with taunting invitation, revealing as he did so a white-faced Lydia standing in the hall.

“No, Lydia,” Allison whispered, and Isaac momentarily felt pity for the snappy red-head, who must have just seen Whittemore's corpse in the hall. She looked ethereal, wringing her hands and pressing her lips tight, to hold in the scream bobbing at her throat. None of the Alphas made a move to touch her, and they fell back as she walked into the room and the slid down the wall with a dazed expression.

A fantastic crash rumbled through the house, shaking the mansion’s foundations. Then the far wall exploded. Isaac reacted on instinct, curling into a ball and hugging the lintel of the fireplace. Splinters shot through the room and peppered them all, followed by Derek's heavy body, which landed across the room. The leader of the Alpha pack stepped into the bright hole left in the wall, her shapely silhouette outlined in hot summer sun. Derek staggered up, swayed, and then was swatted down by one of the other Alphas, leaving him sprawled at Isaac's feet. He rolled over with a groan, bruised and looking like shit. The woman he'd been fighting walked up, and pressed her bare, clawed foot into his chest.

Then she smiled wickedly at them all. “Now that your company is all assembled,” she spoke to Derek, “we can get on with our business.”

“Surely you don't need _all_ of us,” Peter quipped, and everyone turned on him with a glare as the Alpha Leader laughed.

“Never one to miss an opportune moment, are you Peter?”

“Kali, really” Peter coaxed “You've got enough for a deal, you don't need the humans.”

“Standing up for mud, Peter? how uncharacteristically noble of you.”

"I'm becoming a new man," Peter replied, with just a hint of mockery.

Derek tried to shift on the floor, but Kali jabbed her toe into his sternum. “Ah, ah, ah,” she admonished. “As for the humans, since you brought them into this, Peter, you can do the decent thing and put them out of their misery yourself.”

“This isn't over,” Derek growled through his fangs.

“It never is kid, but I'd save your hate. You'll need it where you're going.” Then she took out an old, weathered pocket watch, tapped the side with her finger and began counting the time. “Three, two, and one. Give my regards to Greyback.” She dropped the watch onto Derek's lap, leaving the chain trailing over Peter's knee.

“Wait!” Derek tried, but it was too late. There was a sick spinning sensation and the world around them blurred.


	2. The Pack

They landed with a hard splat in a puddle of mucky swamp water. Derek was first, then Isaac and all the rest, one right after the other until they were sprawled in a pile of knotted limbs. Isaac felt like his spine was going to cave in and Peter was looking uncharacteristically blue in the face. Someone kicked him in the ribs and soon they were all squirming to get out of the mess. Stiles belly flopped in the mire, and Allison stumbled up with black hair dripping in streaks while she frantically checked her bag for damage. Derek had his claws out before he'd even stood, on guard and searching the dark for enemies.

Wait. Dark? Isaac wiped mud off his face and blinked. The ruin of the Hale's parlor was gone, along with the house, and the woods, and the sun. He tilted his head up until he was facing a night sky. Stars burned more brightly than Isaac had ever seen. Below them were mild rolling hills and flatlands covered in coarse brush, and water. It smelled nothing like home and there wasn't a light to be seen. No street lamps, gas-station signs, twinkles of a distant town. There wasn't even a road. They were in the middle of nowhere.

“What the hell just happened?”

“Where are we?” Allison whispered.

“The other side of the world. Can you smell it?” Peter asked Derek, who tilted his head and sniffed.

“The sea,” he whispered.

“Ugh, I can't smell anything but rotten eggs,” Stiles said, holding a hand over his nose, and looking dubiously at the bog.

“It's Europe,” Lydia broke in with a trembling lip, as if talking to herself. “Has to be somewhere between minus two, and plus eight on the time zone scale. The Plough is above Polaris.” Then she turned on the spot, and pointed up with a shaky finger. “The summer triangle, Deneb, Vega, Altair. If you're very lucky, on a dark night, you can see the Milky Way where Cygnus flies.”

Stiles gaped at her and croaked. “Wow.”

“Lydia, are you sure?” Allison asked delicately, peering at the dark sky. “How is that even possible?”

“Magic,” Lydia hissed, turning on them with a fierce expression. Peter looked very smug and raised an eyebrow at Derek as if he’d just won a contest. His nephew's scowl deepened and he turned away.

“Magic, like magic, magic?” Stiles asked.

“Quiet,” Derek ordered, looking over the rocky swamp with narrow eyes. “Somethings not right.”

“You mean besides the fact we've been miraculously transported ten thousand miles from home and Scott is still missing?” Stiles asked sarcastically.

“Lets go,” Derek murmured, ignoring Stilinski's comment and gathering Isaac as he headed toward the mounds. Isaac followed instinctively, but came up short when two figures rose from the ground in front of them. More shapes stood around them, appearing like black shrouds out of the night. Isaac gulped and backed up until his spine was against Derek's. The shadows began to chuckle.

“You're not leavin’ without paying respects are you? Alpha would find that mighty unfriendly, an’ so would I.” One man in a long cloak stepped forward, the accent sharp and guttural. He pulled off his hood revealing a vile face with yellow eyes and deep red wounds, still healing. “Welcome to England, the territory of Fenrir Greyback. We've been expecting yeh.”

The strange werewolves closed in, moonlight exposing formless clothes that looked like the remains of some sketchy costume shop rubbish bin. Isaac could smell blood on them, and their claws seemed unnaturally long.

Derek settled his weight, and though Isaac could sense pain and weariness in every limb of his Alpha, the man still readied himself for a fight. Isaac tried to do the same, and wondered how everything had gone wrong so quickly. Did the same thing happen to Scott? Or did they leave their friend somewhere back in Beacon Hills, at the mercy of Kali and her cronies?

“We're not here to fight.” Derek announced.

The other wolves smirked. “Not us yer not,” the first one answered. Then he waved a stick in a dramatic arc and shouted something bizarre, like Ex Perry Lamas. Isaac frowned. Were they being threatened with drunken camels? England was weird. Nothing happened, besides Peter and Derek getting twitchy, and after a moment the new werewolves all started laughing. “They've not got a thing on 'em. They came bloody unarmed.”

“I don't think they're even wizards. Look at what this one's wearin.” One of the wolves pointed at Isaac, who glanced down at his jeans, sneakers and muddy shirt. It all looked perfectly normal to him.

“Oh, it's worse than that. These.” Another werewolf, a dirty looking woman with knotted black hair slid up behind Stiles. “They're not even Bitten. Humans the lot, without a drop of magic in their blood. Muggles,” she grinned the same way a child would when it found a new toy.

“Muh, what?” Stiles slipped, stumbling away while the werewolf circled him on the moor.

“Circe!” The first man, their apparent leader shouted. “No games, not until Greyback gets his piece.”

“Seems a poor catch to me,” she muttered but slunk away regardless, and Stiles hurried back to hide behind Allison and Lydia.

They were quickly rounded up. Isaac expected Derek to put up a fight, despite his words. That was what Derek usually did, but he offered no resistance as they were prodded along the moor. He merely kept to the front, staying ahead of Isaac and the others as much as possible. They formed an uncomfortable human chain, with Peter taking up the rear and the humans in the middle.

Stiles kept asking questions. Who were they, where were they going, did they realize this was kidnapping? No one answered him and the strange werewolves prowled around, poking at anyone who stepped out of line and brandishing their sticks. Isaac didn't get that at all, but Derek and Peter were avoiding the branches like they were loaded guns, so Isaac took his cue from them. He was used to imagining anything was dangerous, no matter how odd. Though he admitted Lamas would have been a stretch.

They walked for a long time, feet stumbling over unfriendly ground. Stiles had grown silent, and was now watching everything and sharing worried looks with Allison. The smell of stagnant water slowly changed into fresh blooming heather, and then to fire and cooking meat which drifted up wind. They came around the horn of a mound and saw the flickering lights of a long camp spread along a shallow gorge as far as Isaac could see, like a glowing vein in the ground.

When they reached the first spear of camp people snuck forward to watch them pass. Men and women, young and old, ranged up and down in a mish-mash of unkept bodies. Some wore patched robes, or jeans, and some of them didn't bother with clothes at all, but stood in naked glory tearing meat away from spits on fires. Stiles turned bright red and stared. One of the women, with an open vest revealing her protruding collar bone and muddy breasts, leered at Isaac as he was marched past.

Glowing eyes flickered everywhere in shades of red and gold, between tents and over the ridge poles of decaying stone cottages. There were very few of these. Most of the werewolves seemed to sleep under the open sky, or under tarps. It was, thought Isaac, like a homeless camp. Except that everywhere he looked was something he could only describe as magic. Cook pots were stirring themselves and barrels floated above the ground. He stepped on a scrap of newspaper with a moving picture and nearly fell in shock, before Derek grabbed him under the arms and pulled him onward.

Through this labyrinth they were lead, and up a stony path to a row of caves on the side of the gorge. After passing a few despairing faces taking shelter in grottos, they were pulled to a halt in front of one large cavern. It ran deep into the rock, so even with his heightened eyesight the cave was so black Isaac could see nothing inside. The werewolf who'd been leading them brandished his stick and a long branch of pale wood slid back from the entrance. Derek was roughly shoved inside and Isaac followed on his heels with the others.

Their captors snorted once and left with a swagger. Peter glared at Derek, and the younger man sighed. There was a quiet moment while they all looked at each other, bruised, weary, and scared.

Then, from the back of the cave a familiar voice called, “Derek?”

Derek spun, sniffing with abandon, and before Isaac had caught up, his Alpha was charging into the back of the cave. Isaac hurried after him with Peter on his tail. In the dark he found Derek, his arms wrapped around Scott McCall as if he was going to crush the life out of him.

“What are you doing here?” Scott asked, looking bewildered.

Isaac answered by leaping forward and catching Scott just as Derek released him with a rough pat. Scott grunted as Isaac shoved his smaller friend into the cave wall, searching for a sign of sickness, pain, or god forbid, the stink of creeping death. There were only a few scratches, mostly healed by now, and Scott let him be for an awkward minute, before hugging Isaac with less ferocity and more emotion then Isaac could have given. Isaac wasn't normally the hugging type. He let Scott have his fill though, because Scott clearly needed it, and the unhappy feeling in his gut faded a little.

Then Stiles's annoying voice, lost in the cave, asked what was going on and suddenly Scott was hugging Stiles, then Allison, and out of the dark Isaac heard Boyd's deep tenor and Erica's sharp tongue join into the clamor and he was tackling the two friends he'd thought had gotten lost in the world. Lydia was demanding explanations and Peter was lingering in back with an exasperated look on his face. Isaac didn't care. He'd found his pack. Now, they just had to find a way out of here.

*

It took some time for their initial jubilation to fade, but once it did, the group quickly turned to sour dejection, as they realized they were trapped. The cave wasn’t just shelter for them, but a prison cell. Erica, Boyd and Scott had all been trying to get out since they were trapped here. Scott more than anyone. Nothing they did let them pass, and Scott had been shocked so hard he flew into the back wall when he tried to walk through. The stones were dented from his weight. Boyd did discover they could toss pebbles and dirt out of the cave, as easily as ever.

Scott hoped Stiles would have better luck, since he was human, so he didn’t stop his best friend from comically dashing at the cave entrance, as if he was about to grow a super-hero cape right out of his back. Unfortunately Stiles bounced back just as hard, narrowly avoiding Peter who was running his hands over the walls. Apparently humans weren’t immune to magic.

Scott used the time to recited the whole story of how he’d been chased down by Alphas. They’d followed him from the hospital after he brought his mom dinner, and he’d gone to woods, hoping to outrun them and at the very least lead them away from his mom. It hadn’t gone well. Erica and Boyd had a similar tale.

So, they were just stuck waiting while Peter and Derek took their sweet time inspecting the cave. Those two hadn't bothered with the same antics as the teenagers, and Scott wished they'd just told them what to do, or not do, instead of letting them fumble around like kids who didn't know a door handle from a water spigget. He wasn't even sure what they were looking for. Stiles had suggested a secret lever, but there was nothing besides stone in here. He'd looked. Also Derek’s eyes nearly rolled out of his head at the suggestion.

In leu of anything else to do, most of the teens were all lying around now, trying to think of something helpful and feeling anxiously bored.

“You get anything yet?” Allison asked Lydia, leaning into the other girl. Lydia shook her head, glaring fiercely at the two phones in her hands as if they had betrayed her.

“There's no reception, no power. They won't even turn on!” Lydia fruitlessly tapped the keys.

“Maybe they broke in the fall,” Allison tried, having no other words for the whirlwind that brought them here.

“Mine doesn't work either,” Stiles supplied, rubbing his head with his useless i-phone. “This is a disaster, my dad is gonna go nuts. He'll never let me out of the house again.”

“How's my mom?” Scott asked, fearfully.

“Uh, not good,” Stiles admitted, quietly, then hastily continued when Scott curled over his knees, feeling awful. “I mean she’s not hurt or anything, but she's been calling everyone we know about you. I think she even tried Allison's dad.” 

Scott nodded and gripped his knuckles, sending a wistful look at Allison. An awkward distance had spread between them after the first flush of relief. Scott was firmly stifling the urge to go up and wrap himself around her until they couldn't tell where one of them ended and the other began. Allison wanted space, and he was going to respect it. Even though it hurt deeply to be so near her.

At least his mom was okay. He sighed, then winced as the scab on his side pinched. It wasn't bad, just a scratch now, while Derek looked like he'd lost a bar fight. Isaac’s back was slashed up and even Peter had some delicate scrapes. Who'd have thought he'd do something as selfless as fight for Scott's rescue. Then again, maybe he was underestimating Peter. Scott snorted at that idea and looked back at Stiles.

“So you came all this way...” Scott lett the question hang in the air.

“To rescue you, obviously,” Stiles slapped him on the shoulder.

“Yeah,” Scott allowed. “Umm, but didn't you have a plan for that?”

“Oh, well, I didn't think that far. Usually that's your job.”

Scott sighed, and banged his head against the wall.

“Hey, come on, we found you.”

“By accident,” Scott reminded his best friend.

“Right, and all we have to do now is get past an army of severely unhygienic monsters, find a road, get an airplane and get back home. No big deal, I mean, England's not that far,” Stiles laid out.

“Just half the planet,” Lydia snapped.

Scott took deep, calming breaths.

Isaac, not so forgiving, muttered in a scathing voice, “someone should lock _you_ in a box, it'd be better for everyone.”

“We'll figure this out.” Stiles patted Scott's knee, ignoring Isaac. “What’s Batman without his sidekick?”

“I thought I was Batman now,” Scott teased.

“We'll trade off,” Stiles assured him and Scott enjoyed the fleeting smile that Stiles' humor could bring his currently heavy heart.

“So, how _did_ you get here?”

“Uh, it just sort of happened.”

“Happened,” Scott repeated in a suspicious deadpan. The kind which usually told Stiles he wasn't getting cookies for that answer.

“You're friends decided to waltz up to my old house while the Alphas were there.” Derek gave the short-tempered answer. Though he didn't sound terribly angry, Scott thought, just tired.

“We didn't waltz,” Stiles defended and Derek spared him an exasperated look. 

“You really thought you'd hike up there unheard?”

“We left the car behind,” Stiles threw up his arms in a 'what more do you want' gesture. “Besides if we hadn't shown up you just would've been caught on your own and sent here.”

“That was the plan,” Derek snapped, his eyes flaring like embers. 

“And a brilliant plan it was Derek,” Peter reflected in a deadpan. “Except for one or two minor flaws in execution.”

Scott frowned at the man with dislike. Was that meant to be taken as sarcastic, or did he actually believed Derek would buy it? Judging from Derek's face, he didn't.

“So, you wanted to get caught. Why?” Scott asked.

“For you” Derek said, as if that should be obvious. “All of you,” he nodded at Erica and Boyd. “These four weren't supposed to be here,” he finished darkly, looking at Isaac, Stiles and the girls.

“Why were the Alpha's even there? I mean, it's not like we're a threat to them.” Scott shared a look with Boyd. “Are we?”

“No,” Peter's shadow answered absently, talking against the glow of the camp below. “ _We're_ not a threat.”

“Who is?” Scott whispered, low. He caught the flash of Peter's teeth as he grinned, and then the older wolf cocked his head gesturing at the glowing camp below them.

“They are.”

Everyone looked out the cave at the long moor, with its restless wind and raucous werewolves.

“Who are they?” Allison broke the quiet, voicing all their thoughts, and Scott sent her what he hoped was an encouraging look. She offered a brave smile in return and gripped the strap of her bag harder.

“They call themselves the Greyback pack,” Boyd answered.

“More red than grey,” Erica muttered, looking hatefully out of the cave. “They paint themselves with blood.” She turned back, eyes reflecting the firelight and obscuring her deeper thoughts. “On purpose.”

“When we first got here, they had us... we killed,” Boyd added hollowly, running a hand over his dark skull.

“It wasn't like we thought it'd be,” Erica focused on Isaac through her wild hair, something private and sinister passing between them. Erica looked away first, silently rubbing her hands as if to remove some invisible stain. “It was messy.”

“It was kill, or be killed,” Boyd insisted, his tone saying that he, at least, had no blame for her. It was all taken up with hating their captors.

“I guess werewolves like that are where the legends come from,” Isaac mumbled, watching Peter.

“Greyback's always been vicious,” Derek said, his tone rough and deep in the dark. It wound through them like a storyteller, leaving his imprint on their souls. “He preys on weaker packs, picking up Omega's here and there, and looking for victims. They talk about him even in California, that's how far his reach extends, but he never travels outside of Europe. I never considered him a threat.”

“He wants you all in his pack doesn't he?” Stiles surmised, rubbing his chin. “That’s why he’s kept Boyd and Erica in here. Insurance.”

“Not exactly,” Derek replied, and then added with a weary sigh. “He wanted Kali's pack first.”

“And she wants the territory, back home,” Isaac added, his sharp face looking thoughtful.

“Technically, she and the others want to keep the property they stole and divvied up six years ago.” Peter clarified, rather caustically. “Having us miraculously return was inconvenient for her.”

Everything slipped into place then, and Scott groaned. “Oh god. She made a deal. You, instead of her. She gets to go free and she gets your home on top of it.” Derek nodded, silent, and Scott persisted. “But why? I mean, this Greyback has got hundreds of werewolves already and even if he still wants a bigger pack, you can't force someone into it.”

Derek looked at him with a grim face. “You can. A good Alpha just chooses not to.”

Scott gulped, remembering the pull he'd felt toward Peter when the man had been an Alpha, and how easily he'd forced Scott to shift against his will. He’d spent a lot of energy actively not thinking about Peter since he’d re-appeared. Now everything Derek had ever said about joining his pack sat in Scott's stomach like a greasy ball of lies. Every time Scott had told him no, and walked away from Derek feeling like he'd achieved something, suddenly seemed meaningless. What would Derek have done, if he’d been just a little more like Peter and didn't care about consent, however trivially? What would Greyback do?

“So, what happens to us?” he forced the question out.

Peter answered casually. “Anything. Biting, mauling, a little torture here and there I expect. If you can be vicious, you won't have it so bad. It's the soft ones, with forgiving natures, who get the worst of it. It'll be every wolf for himself in a pack like this.”

“We could run,” Scott insisted.

“We wouldn't make it far. Anyone Greyback can't control, he gets rid of. Permanently,” Peter looked at Derek, who ignored him and stared out of the cave, his rough profile framed by stars.

“And us?” Stiles asked looking at Allison and Lydia.

“Oh, you they'll just kill outright,” Peter added blithely, as if discussing the weather. Stiles gaped, looking ill. Scott gripped his arms as goosebumps ran down his front, angry at how Peter talked about murder like it was an item on his grocery list.

“Have you found anything yet?” Derek finally grunted.

“Patience, nephew, is a virtue.”

“We don't have time for patience.”

“That sums up your life rather accurately,” Peter muttered. “But as it happens, we have all the time in the world.”

“Why?” Scott prodded, wary.

“Because there's no way out for us.” Peter sat down and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles and looking for all intents and purposes as if he was going to take a nap.

“Get up!” Derek ordered with a snarl, looming over his Uncle. “We planned for this. What do you mean there's no way out now?”

“Exactly what I said,” Peter enunciated very slowly, an irritated gleam in his eye that was made all the more eerie by the dim moonlight. “It's not just a little hoodoo, Derek. There's mountain ash on the ground. We can't cross it, and they can't move it.” He nodded at the humans.

Scott got up with Stiles and the others until the entire group was crowded around Derek's shoulders, looking down as Peter gestured at the long, gnarly branch lying across the mouth of the cave.  

Derek peered closer. “A spell?” he asked, looking up at his Uncle. “That should break with the rest.”

“The rest of what?” Isaac asked cautiously.

“Wards,” Derek answered softly, distracted. Then he shrugged as the teens all looked at him. “That's what they call them anyway,” he nodded at the camp below.

“Okay, we have officially left planet earth,” Stiles drew a hand down his face. “Besides shape shifters and special dust now there's witchcraft. That's just awesome.”

Scott gave him a sympathetic look.

“That isn't Witchcraft,” Isaac interrupted, pointing at two holes in the wood “It's just hammered in.”

“Yes, thank you, for pointing out the obvious” Peter bit back, his expression anything but grateful.

“Hey,” Scott snapped, instantly coming to Isaac's defense as the other boy tensed up, “back off.”

Peter shrugged and resumed his lounging while Derek stood, looking at the wooden bar as if he could incinerate it with his eyes. Who knew, with magic and what else happening, maybe that was an Alpha power. Scott hoped not. They’d probably all end up burnt.

Eventually though Derek wilted and looked back at them. “He's right, we can't get out.”

“You're just giving up?” Scott accused, facing Derek. Hot, frightened betrayal raced through his heart. You were supposed to help us, what are you even doing here if you’re just going to to lie down and quit? Scott wanted to yell at him.

Derek scowled through the blood on his face, something sad and soft, like a guilty conscious, trying to send a message to Scott. “We can't get out,” Derek repeated gently, “but they can.” He nodded at Lydia, Allison, and Stiles.


	3. The Pack

A long argument ensued. First Stiles, and then Allison insisted they couldn't leave Scott here, since, intentional or not, they had come all this way to rescue him. Lydia was suspiciously silent, and Erica snapped that they should be grateful to have a way out at all. Allison looked ready to clock her and Erica was baring her teeth, more like a feral dog than the teasing sex-bomb she'd been in school. It wasn't until Scott had calmed everyone down, and Peter silkily offered that discretion was the better part of valor that Allison and Stiles agreed to leave. After all, they couldn't rescue Scott while they were imprisoned with him.

“Once you're free of the gorge, get out of the area,” Derek instructed.

“How in the holy hell are we supposed to do that?” Stiles complained.

“Just walk,” Derek grit his teeth.

“Like you belong,” Peter added. “You'd be surprised what people will let you get away with, if you do it with confidence. You don't smell powerful, and if you're lucky, they won't bother chasing you.”

“And if we’re unlucky?” Stiles pushed.

“You’ll be hunted down and slaughtered,” Peter smiled.

“You should go into counseling. Really, this bedside manner of yours is doing wonders for my self esteem,” Stiles muttered sarcastically at the older man. Nobody was really paying attention though because Peter and Derek had each pulled a long cord with a small leather bag from under their shirts, and were crouching before the cave mouth.

“Do you remember how to do this?” Peter drew a small half moon in the dirt between them.

“Do your part, and I'll do mine,” Derek ordered gruffly.

“What are those?” Erica asked, sneaking up beside Isaac.

Derek shared an unusual smirk with Peter, filled with old secrets, ans said. “A family heirloom.”

They placed the bags on the ground, bowed their heads and then they each began to hum, slow and deep. Their voices wound together in a woeful melody, somewhere between a howl and song. It crept into Scott's bones and echoed through the rocks around them. The hum rose in pitch, and Scott began to sway, ever so slightly, his tongue yearning to join in, though he didn't know the tune. Erica took his hand, and Boyd the other, while Isaac and Lydia circled silently around them all, following the rhythm. Then a sharp snap breached quiet of the cave and Scott felt the shock of it through his body. Derek and Peter instantly dropped their eerie song, and he blinked, feeling like he’d just woken up.

“Sooo,” Stiles cracked, his voice loud and brittle after the low song. “What are you gonna do?”

Scott was unable to fathom that Stiles could have missed all that. It was so obvious. He looked back at Erica, and Boyd to make sure he hadn't just imagined it.

“Its done,” Derek grunted, annoyed, and stood.

“What? but nothing happened.”

“Stiles,” Scott shook his head at his best friend, and Stiles desisted, looking estranged and disappointed. Scott felt bad, he didn’t like living in a different world from his best friend, and most of the time they could get around it, but this was not one of those times. “You should go now,” he whispered.

Stiles nodded, serious for once, and Allison pulled Scott to her, whispering. “I'll be back for you, I promise.”

“I know,” he replied just as softly, inhaling her light smell. Then, just as she was pulling away, he added, “I love you.”

She stopped, at the edge of the ash wood branch. “I know,” she whispered. Then she ran, with Lydia and Stiles. Scott leaned against the mouth of the cave, watching the three of them disappear down the trail and listening to the pounding feet when they were out of sight. Finally even the noise of their heartbeats faded and Scott, left back in the cave, felt lost without them.

Isaac sidled up behind him, looming as a silent support at Scott's back.

“You think they'll make it?” he asked with his usual lack of tact.

“I hope so,” was all Scott could say. Please be safe, he thought, sending the thought speeding after his friends. It was infuriating to have to stand here, unable to do anything but watch them run, and hope it was enough. He wished for a moment, that they hadn't come at all, because then none of them would be in danger. Even knowing Allison would protect them, and was frankly scary with a bow and arrow, didn't make letting go easier. Scott had no idea what she might do now, if backed into a corner.

He guessed part of why he never told Allison about Gerard's threats was because he didn't want to corner her like that. He didn't want to make her choose between him and her family. If it ever came to a choice between Allison, and his mom, Scott wasn't sure what he'd do, or if he'd be able to face himself in the morning. He never wanted Allison to be pulled apart like that. He'd rather let her go her own way and see her whole, then try and hold on and be the thing which tore her apart.

*

Remus Lupin stood in an unobtrusive corner, watching the camp. Far above his traitorous mother, the moon, made slow progress across the sky. That was how Remus thought of her in his darker moments, and it was becoming increasingly difficult not to dwell on dark thoughts the longer he was with Greyback's pack, however necessary it was.

Greyback's numbers had grown to terrifying proportions, and now rumors of the Dark Lord were spreading like wildfire over the country. At least, if you knew where to look. Hags were meeting in swamps to whisper prophecies over toadstools and cat livers. Giants were shaking rocks loose from their canyons and saying that Indrik was stirring in the mountains. Ravens were flying down the chimneys in Yorkshire, and he'd heard the Gray Man had been seen in the Cairngorms. The creatures of Europe were watching the beginning of a story which had yet to take shape.

A week ago Dumbledore had sent him an urgent message, relaying Voldemort's new rise, and Remus had packed his small trunk and set off for the wilds without a second look. He knew exactly where he needed to be. During his years of hobbling from job to job he'd fallen into company with many dark creatures, more than he'd ever believed possible as a student. Over time he'd gained an unexpected attachment to the creatures. These were his people, a fact he couldn't deny now, as he'd so often tried when James had been alive, and their little group was whole and sound. He hated Greyback and everything he stood for, but Remus didn't want to see his race exterminated either. Loyalty to two masters. He'd never felt more kinship with Snape.

So Remus had slunk back to Greyback, tail metaphorically between his legs and the Alpha received him into the fold, as graciously as his barbaric tastes allowed. Remus touched the wound on his cheek which was still healing, and looked nervously about. Three large, viscous fighters were beating a skinny Beta nearby, and Remus felt a pang of guilt, watching them, but didn't dare intervene. There was no point, and he couldn't afford to become a victim himself. There was no one else to watch the werewolves, and if Remus got himself killed here, he feared there would be no one to help his people. He still felt like a coward. How ironic, he thought, that I feel no more courageous now than I did as a child. Perhaps I should have gone to Hufflepuff after all.

A hoot broke his thoughts, and a small barn owl swooped over the camp, carrying his post. Remus darted from his hiding spot and caught the bird, before it could be snatched by a thoughtless wolf looking for an easy supper. Hunger was constant here for the weak or timid. Only Greyback's favorites ate well, and that was because they did not care what, or who, they ate. Remus quickly untied the bundle the owl carried and tossed the bird into the air, away from danger. He walked away, unwrapping his post as he did so and flipping through copies of the Daily Prophet, the Quibbler, and Witch Weekly.

“Anything new, Remus?” A homely wolf with a twitchy eye shuffled up to him, and Remus smiled.

“All the staples, Nictimus, they just came in.” He passed the Quibbler over, and the man instantly buried his nose in the crossword on the back page, while Remus guided them around a broken barrel. He was gaining a reputation as a source of news in the camp, which earned him enough status to bargain with anyone who wanted to eat his liver, and also a steady stream of interested ears, which he could whisper into.

It didn't take much work to seed doubt about Greyback in a moderate mind, but it took much more skill to ease someone away from the fears which had held them captive for so long. At least two thirds of the camp only followed Greyback out of fear. They believed there was no where else to go, and even if there was, Greyback and his enforcers would kill them for trying to leave. Remus hoped if he could get enough wolves willing to escape, and promise them lives outside of Greyback's horror show, he could set up a railroad for them.

“You know, Nictimus,” Remus said softly, “I bet you could write for the Quibbler yourself. You --” Remus broke off, with a startled grunt when a small shoulder bumped into him.

“Sorry,” a young voice mumbled and Remus turned, looking down at the woman, girl really, who'd collided with him. She had soft eyes, dark hair and a fresh face recently hollowed by sorrow. Beside her were two others, a skinny, awkward boy and a pretty red-head. 

“Not at all,” he replied, just as softly and inclined his head.

“Allison, come on,” the red-head urged, tugging her friend's arm. 

They're American! Remus realized with a lurch. There was no mistaking that accent, and a sinking feeling came over him as he looked at the three. He'd had no idea Voldemort had reached so far. The Order was hearing of his emissaries in France, Poland and Germany, even Albania, but nothing yet across the sea. Remus had been counting on America's history of keeping a “hands off” policy, until it benefitted them to do otherwise. It didn'r bode well for his country if Voldemort already had America in his pocket.

The three teenagers hurried past him muttering to each other, “Where are we going?”

“Up the ridge.”

“Are you crazy?”

The black haired girl looked back at him once, before disappearing into the crowd. Remus was reminded, with a pang, of another mis-fit trio with black, red and brown hair, who had a penchant for adventure. He hoped Harry was safer then these children were now.   

“Terrible that, just terrible,” Nictimius said looking after them from behind the Quibbler.

“Greyback always liked them young,” Remus nodded with bitterness, thinking of his own bite.

He stopped when a howl suddenly fell over them, singing to his blood. The Alpha was calling. Another voice picked up the howl, then another and another and people began to move. They dropped food, and games and crawled out of hiding, roaming towards the center of camp where Greyback waited. Remus followed the mob, and a few of the softer wolves fell in behind him.

The pack gathered at the base of a long, curving rock that formed a natural amphitheater in the gorge. It was perfect stage for whatever terrors Greyback wanted to enact, and thus the Alpha's favorite spot in the camp. It was also a natural well of magic, a dip where the lea lines would pool, before running over and back into the air. It had once been a seat of great power, which was why he imagined Greyback had chosen it for his lair.

Of course the Alpha told his werewolves it was territory he’d taken by conquest, and most assumed he’d fought some great wizard and won. That was only because they did not remember their history, Remus sighed. This place had, during the last war, been the sight of a massacre. Voldemort had gathered a hundred witches and wizards here, supposedly to talk peace, and then killed them all. Their deaths had spoiled the magic so that now it was too poisonous for anyone but a dark wizard to stand for long. Greyback had taken the sight because it was abandoned by the ministry, and because he liked the smell of pain. Remus already felt nauseous standing there, and began climbing the gorge and up into the hills, so he could observe from above.

Greyback stood and raised his arms, his voice booming around the stage.

“Friends, Brothers, Sisters. Today, we have word that an old ally has returned. You've all heard this. You know what they've done for us before and you've all come, as called, knowing what's at stake. These rumors about the Ministry of Magic. About their kill squads, and how they turned the Aurors on us at Nottingham -- maybe they're not just rumors. We keep their laws, and they still want to see us destroyed. I looked their minister in the eye,” Greyback continued, "I told him how desperate our situation was, but what do the wizards do? They hunt us like dogs. Is this the legacy of Lycaon's children?” The pack howled in denial, and Fenrir's voice rode the swell of rage. “If these people had their way, our kind would cease to exist. With your help and sacrifice, I will make sure that never happens, and we will rise as we were a thousand years ago, when we feasted and danced on the bones of our enemies!”

The werewolves spasmed in ecstasy, leaping towards the sky as one.

“Today!” Greyback hollered. “We have new blood to add to the pack.” Greyback barked at one of the wolves in the amphitheater.

Remus had a bad feeling about what was coming, and his foreboding deepened when he chanced to look up and saw three small figures scaling the ridge nearby. He'd never been particularly apt at divination, failed the class miserably in fact, but he was absolutely sure that those were the teenagers he'd bumped into, and that trouble would follow in their wake.

*

“Can you see anything?” Stiles whispered, crawling on hands and knees and feeling his stomach rebel at the sight of the ground dropping away beside him.

“Not yet,” Allison's determined voice answered up ahead. All Stiles could see of her was that damn black bag she'd been carrying since they left his car. He would like to say Allison was a bad influence, but he'd been right behind her when she turned around and circled the camp, instead of running away and looking for a pay-phone like any sane person would have. Just don't panic, Stiles told himself. Panicking is not good. You don't have time for it because you have to rescue Scott, and then yourself. Don't think about the legion of crazed werewolves below you. This is just like World of Warcraft.

“I cannot believe we are doing this,” Lydia hissed behind him. Destroying the image of himself as a brave and stoic warrior and replacing it with his reality, by the power of her utter contempt in that reality. Stiles groaned. At least she wasn't in shock anymore. He wished he was doing so well. He was flushed and sweating, but not fun way, and he distracted himself from it by wishing Lydia was crawling ahead of him instead of behind. Then he could see her... well, yeah. 

“Lydia, shhh!” Allison hissed from the front of their line. “They'll hear you.”

Furious silence was Lydia's response, and Stiles tried to squirm through the grass without breaking any stems. He was sure werewolves could hear stems breaking. Or him breathing, or that stupid scratching sound his jeans made. God, they were so dead. He nearly screamed when a hand grabbed his ankle. Thankfully, he did not have to add his manly pride to the things he'd recently buried, like the promise to stay safe he'd made his dad just yesterday.

When he turned around he found it was Lydia holding his foot. She'd stopped and was tapping her phone with a pretty frown. Or it would be pretty if it wasn't so dark and they weren't in life threatening danger.

“What are you doing?” he hissed

“Axing the lice,” Lydia mouthed back. Or she might have said “texting the police.” Which would make more sense. Yeah, he could totally read lips. Stiles waved, a gesture which he thought perfectly encompassed “You stopped for that? I thought they were broken. Do you have reception up here? Who are you going to call? I don't know the number for the police in England, and my dad is on the other side of the planet!”

Lydia ignored him. After a minute he heard a sniffle from under her bent head, and she shoved her phone back into her skirt pocket before crawling onward. Stiles scuttled after her.

They caught up with Allison on the edge of the bluff, where she'd stopped and was laying belly down in the wet grass. The three of them peered over the ridge into the circle of torchlight below, where a big rangy man was turning around like a ring master in a circus. That's got to be the Alpha, Stiles decided, peering closer.

Beside him Allison carefully slipped the bag off her shoulder, unzipped it and pulled out a wickedly curved bow and quiver of arrows. Stiles' stared rather stupidly at it while she nocked an arrow in place. Her face was almost as scary as the werewolves below, cold as a north wind and twice as fierce. 

I think she's going to kill something, Stiles thought, stunned. When had this become a thing? When did they leave behind homework and video games as the biggest worries, and get ready to kill? He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, but here they were, tumbling down a slippery slope of fangs and guns and arrows. He'd meant to get out this summer. He'd had a plan. No more following clues or dead bodies, or being involved with psychopaths. Just stay home, and let someone else handle it.

A roar went up from the crowd and Stiles looked down at the Alpha, feeling sick. No one else was handling it now, and Scott was still down there.

*

“Nice speech,” Peter joked, listening to the roar of Greyback’s pack. “A little too Brutus and Anthony for my taste, but then, everything is these days. You can’t go anywhere without hearing some politician quoting ‘friends, romans, countrymen.”

“Is that all you see down there? Politics?” Derek grunted.

“Naturally,” Peter smiled, in that slightly patronizing way he had. “What do you see?”

“A madman,” Derek looked pointedly at his uncle. 

Peter studied his claws with a shrug. “We’re all a bit mad by now, Derek. You really shouldn’t point fingers. It’s rude.”

Derek ground his teeth, and changed the subject. “Greyback’s doing more than building his pack. He’s working with someone.”

“Well, we knew that. Kali didn't make that portkey herself, and none of our kind could use ash,” Peter sneered at the branch on the ground, keeping them trapped.

Derek shook his head. “Its more than that. Since when are there so many wizards in a werewolf pack, and who’s this ally of his? Somethings not right here.”

“Perhaps, but we don't know Greyback well.” Peter cautioned.

“You do,” Derek retorted, and Peter waved it off.

“I know half baked rumours, stories over a couple drinks in a bar years ago. I never actually met the man.”

“But you admired him,” Derek persisted, gnawing in the subject.

“Once upon a time, maybe. Things change. Loyalties shift.”

“Your loyalty is in perpetual motion,” Derek rolled his eyes. He hadn’t forgotten how quickly Peter’s tune changed back home. It was dizzying, trying to keep up with his uncle’s motives, and while Derek may need him, he didn’t trust him any more than a snake in the grass. “So, what do you know about this?” Derek nodded at the camp.

“What makes you think I know anything more than you?” 

“You always do."

“Well, I’m afraid I must disappoint you this time, Derek. Because I’ve been out of touch for a while.” The older man replied sharply. Derek tried not to look chagrined, recalling how his uncle had looked lying in a coma bed like a broken manaquin. “Besides,” Peter continued. “It’s been over three hundred years since a Hale set foot in Europe, and your mother and I were more concerned with keeping track of our own neighbors.”

“Look how well that went."

“Fingers, Derek,” Peter rebuked lightly, then turned suddenly serious. “You now what Fenrir's going to do to you.”

“Yes,” Derek hissed, very aware of the young eyes and ears behind them that were eavesdropping on every word.

“Then you know what you have to do, to stop it. Don't you?”

Derek bowed his head, gulping down his fear so that it didn't leave his Beta's any more terrified when they smelled it on him. Peter eased closer, so his shoulder was touching Derek's and the young Alpha could feel his uncle's breath ghosting over his ear. 

“I don't know if I can do that,” Derek dropped his voice as low as he could, until it was no louder then the sound of a beetle's footsteps. Everything had gotten cocked up. Peter laid a hand on the back of his neck, claws lightly trailing over his skin and sending shivers down his spine.

“You'll have to. Unless you want to lose everything you've built.” Peter glanced back at the cave, and the teenagers huddled by the wall. Scott was eyeing them with a mix of distrust and hope. “Scott's counting on you, Derek, we all are.” 

Derek turned on his uncle with an angry hiss, “It took you months, and losing not a small amount of your mind to go that far. I haven't even--”

“You're a Hale, Derek, although I admit not a particularly effective one,” Peter interrupted. “Our history is in you. Believe me, extreme trials are sometimes what it takes to force extreme transformation.”

Derek was about to make a cutting remark about how well that had gone for Peter, when a burly man loomed up on the opposite side of their cave.


	4. The Pack

“Times up,” the strange werewolf grinned through a matted beard. Three other yellow eyed strangers came up behind him, along with a man in a dark cloak and black mustache. Derek narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like this human. He stank of old death, and a hundred hopeless creatures pining in despair. The man snapped a wand from his sleeve, and Derek stiffened, instinctively repelled by spellcraft.

Black Mustache paused and glared at the cave wall, passing over Derek as if he was an unsightly bump on a log. “What happened to the wards?” He demanded.

“Whadda ya mean?” a small man replied, chewing on his fingers. “‘We put up wards jus’ yesterday.”

“Or you were drunk, waving a stick, and pretending to be useful.”

“Hold your tongue, Macnair, unless you want to lose it,” the first werewolf puffed up.

Macnair failed to be impressed by the posturing, and merely sneered. “Remember who’s in charge here, animal.”

“Greyback--”

“Will do what he’s ordered to, and so will you. Next time I tell you to ward a place, do it.”

“It’s him,” the smaller wolf pointed a dirty finger at Derek, who was watching the play by play. “He’s why it didn’t work. We set ‘em up, honest, but he’s a Hale.” he spat on the ground. “Magic don’t work on them.”

“Nonsense,” Macnair replied with the air of a man confident in his invulnerability.

“No it’s true. I heard they was cursed, ages ago. They can’t be held by spells, cause they’re--”

“Stop babbling,” Macnair waved his wand and the little man back away in fear as Macnair sent the plank of mountain ash aside, unblocking the makeshift prison.

Derek was quickly yanked out of the cave by the werewolves. The wounds in his back pulled open and he gladly punched the first wolf in retribution, before he heard Peter and others dragged behind him. Erica yelped, held up by her hair while one man leered at her heaving bosom, tracing a claw down her neck and over one breast.

Derek saw red. Boyd, Scott and Isaac shouted, but before anyone could reach her, Erica had returned her captor's leer with a hateful smirk and lashed out. Her claws sliced open his face from nose to jowl, leaving one side flapping in bloody strips. He wailed and stumbled back, holding the threads of his cheek while the other's laughed.

“Enough,” the Macnair sneered and waved his wand. All the werewolves winced as a stinging sensation danced over them before disappearing with a fizzling spark. “You're acting like rabid beasts.”

“That's what we are, Macnair, or wasn't that why you crawled up our arse in the first place?” Derek's captor laughed and shoved him forward. “Move it, meat.”

They were lead down the winding path from the caves and into a natural basin. A huge crowd waited and they were pushed through the gauntlet as wolves on either side taunted, jeered and scratched them with claws. Derek managed to dig one hand into his Uncle's arm, and share a dark look.

He hadn't touched their family bond since Laura died, but without another recourse Derek finally caved, and pushed all his fear and hope into his uncle's mind. Peter seemed to understand. If Derek failed, and it wasn't much of a stretch to think he would since he seemed to have done nothing but flounder lately, he would need Peter. More than that, he would need Peter to be sane. He honestly didn't think he could count on the latter, but Peter was the only one he could ask.

“Keep them safe,” he begged. “Do whatever you have to.”

“Of course, Derek,” Peter nodded solemnly.

“Don't make me regret this,” Derek warned with his last breath before he was pulled away from his pack and shoved through the last ring in the crowd. He staggered into open ground and straightened, looking up at the Alpha dominating the natural stage.

Greyback prowled forward, looking over Derek's battered form like a butcher inspecting a house steak for spoiling. Derek bristled, and turned with him, keeping his face to his enemy. His first time seeing the infamous Greyback was an experience he could have gone without.

Fenrir was huge, taller and broader than Derek, with coarse hair and a distinct unwashed smell. Behind him, werewolves were chained on horrid display. The healthier ones were simply mutilated, missing an ear or nose but the pitiable souls beyond them were so misshapen that Derek wasn't sure they were even alive. They'd been deformed with magic until they were caught between one body and the next. The head of a wolf and body of a man, and so on. These were the wolves who'd challenged Greyback and lost, he supposed.

Derek gulped.

“Well, well, you must be Derek Hale,” Greyback rumbled as he circled the younger man. "I almost didn't believe it when I'd heard that family was back. Rising from the dead, eh? That's a neat trick.” Greyback clasped Derek by the shoulders like an old friend, before raising his voice to crowd. “Tonight, we welcome home some of our oldest blood. The Hales!”

Excited whispers fluttered over the gorge, as Scott and the others were finally brought up to the stage.

“A Hale,”

“Is it true?”

“I heard they all burned.”

“Not them, they can't be killed,”

“You don't believe those stories, do you?”

Greyback barked for order and the mob fell silent. “It's been a long time since a Hale was seen on these shores. We’re honored they'll be joining their pack with ours.” Fenrir leveled a fearsome look at Derek, who glanced at the hand on his shoulder with distaste. It was like an unfriendly handshake, amiable enough on the outside but squeezing out secret threats inside.

“You don't really want us,” he tried to bluff.

“Oh, I really think I do,” Greyback's sour breath washed over him. “And trust me boy, you don't want to challenge me on it.”

Derek focused on calming his heart. This was his moment. Whatever he did now would either be remembered as a heroic declaration, or the mistake which ruined them all. He hoped it would be the former. He had too much experience with the latter.

“I don't bow for anyone, anymore” he said, then shifted into his second face and threw off Fenrir's arm, baring fangs at the Alpha. He matched that sinister red gaze with one of his own and reached for his anger. It answered, rising from the simmering place he kept it and pushing at his flesh. He strained, trying to shift further. Sweat broke out on his spine, but nothing more happened. He remained as he was, and the features which had easily terrified children in Beacon Hills, were only a puny show to the elite of his own kind.

Someone in the crowd started laughing. That one voice was joined by another and another until the entire gorge rang with derisive cackles. Greyback was laughing loudest of all, and Derek shook slightly as he stood on display, an awful feeling galling his belly. It took a moment to realize it was humiliation. He hadn't felt truly mortified in decades.

“Is that all?” Fenrir waved at Derek's mostly human form.

Derek winced. He knew it wouldn't be enough. All that power. All the strength of an Alpha he commanded and here, it was a joke. He was useless.

He looked at his pack and found his uncle with one hand over his face, sharing embarrassment by association. Isaac was confused, Boyd and Erica nervous and Scott... his first Beta actually looked sorry for him.

Scott wasn’t sure what had just happened, but that kind of brutal laughter never ended well. It cooked up cruel jokes that left kids stripped naked on a flagpole, beaten and tied with sports tape, heads down toilets, or locked inside a box.

On a normal day he was ambivalent about Derek. The guy wasn’t a friend, or a brother. Scott supposed Derek was the lesser of numerous evils in his life. A familiar, reliable problem. Someone he didn’t really trust, but didn’t want to be without. Yet, regardless of how he felt about Derek, Scott wouldn’t wish this circus on anyone.

He was so focused on Derek that he didn’t realize Greyback had stalked up to him, until the stench brought him back to reality with a terrible lurch. 

“It’s your choice, Hale” Greyback said, “if I have to kill you I won't lose sleep over it.”

“I doubt you've lost sleep over much of anything,” Derek answered, eyes dancing warily between Greyback and Scott.

“True enough,” Fenrir laughed and strolled behind the teenagers, idling running his fingers over their shoulders. Scott inched away, and Greyback leeredt. “It's a fine pack you have here. Strong, fresh.” He leaned in and sniffed Scott, who pulled his shoulder up in defense. “Good stock. Though I may have picked them a bit younger.”

He clawed Boyd suddenly round the head, leaving harsh wounds over his scalp. Boyd hollered and stumbled back, gripping his head. The next moment Scott was grabbed by the neck and pulled against Greyback's hot, stinking body.

He struggled, trying to wrench Greyback’s hand from his throat with both arms while his spine was pressed into Fenrir's chest. Erica tried to dart forward but was held back by the other wolves along with Isaac. Peter stood stiffly aside, projecting an air of careful disregard.

“So, Hale, what’ll it be? Do you accept my bite,” Greyback smiled. “Or should I have a little fun with this one?”

His dirty, callused fingers slid down Scott's shirt and teased the waist of his jeans. Scott's mind stalled, skittering away from what was happening. This couldn't be real. He felt sticky with disgust, and his balls were making an active effort crawl back up his spine, away from the wandering claws.

When he heard the roar, he thought it was his own mind screaming in protest, but then he looked up found it was more.

He'd never seen Derek lose his shit. He'd seen the man angry and smug, and always dangerous, but he'd never looked insane. There was no thought in Derek's eyes now, nothing but primal rage. His bellow shook the rocks of the canyon and his whole body was convulsing.

His spine snapped, his back bulged and his face changed into a long muzzle as he grew and grew, like a monster rising out of children's stories to haunt their adult lives. Scott was thrown back to the night he and Stiles were hunted down in their school. Only this time, the monster wasn't chasing him, he wasn't even looking at Scott, he was looking at the bastrd behind him.

Greyback whooped in joy and flung Scott to ground between them, making his own shift while Derek, or the creature who used to be Derek, charged.

Scott scrambled back, but didn't have time to get away as the two monstrous Alpha's met above him in a mutual roar. Giant paws stamped around him, forming a moving cage and Scott threw an arm over his head. God, he was going to get trampled. One of the beasts yelped and hot blood fell, stinging Scott's hands and leaving a delicious smell in his nose. He rolled away from the thundering paws, and almost got crushed when a clawed foot descended toward his head. Just before it flattened his skull Scott was grabbed by the ankle and yanked away from the Alpha's, leaving a muddy trail behind him.

He sat up, gasping and met Isaac's frantic eyes as the other teen released his foot and hauled him up. They backed into the edge of the crowd which had gone reverently silent and Scott faced the spectacle, before them. Two enormous beasts, each the size of house were battling like gladiators, and the earth shook as each fought to kill the other.

“Wha, Which one's Derek?” Scott stuttered.

“The black one?” Isaac gulped, holding onto Scott's hand.

“They’re both black,” Scott replied, clutching the other boy just as hard while one Alpha sliced open the muzzle of the other. The second Alpha lunged forward, and something ripped, snapped and the other beast fell to the ground in a heap. Blood started pooling in the dirt, clogging the air with a coppery smell, and everything went still.

The surviving Alpha limped forward, paws squishing in the blood. Then he took the head of his enemy in his jaws, and with one great heave ripped it from the body and flung it across the arena. The head bounced, and rolled into the crowd, knocking down Beta’s. The last Alpha raised dripping jaws to the sky and howled a victorious song. Another howl joined him, and soon the whole pack was singing with the Alpha. The sound reverberated through Scott and turned his mind to water. All he could see was blood and stars, and all he could hear was the music being echoed by a thousand voices which begged him to join in. This was their anthem. The eternal song.

The melody was broken when a cloaked figure on the edge of the crowd interrupted with a grating curse, and a bolt of green light streaked toward the Alpha.

The beast snarled and ducked just in time to have some hair shaved off, and keep its head. Then an arrow appeared in the cloaked shooter's chest, and was quickly followed by another two sprouting from the back of the hunched Alpha. The monster roared in agony, bending backward, and the crowd went wild, turning on each other en-masse with fangs and claws.

Some werewolves sprang on the surviving Alpha to bring it down. Others turned on these attacking wolves and fights broke out all over the creature's hide while it sank under the assault, grabbing bodies with its teeth and flinging them left and right. More werewolves turned to flee the scene entirely, and Scott was caught in the surge, spinning like a twig in a river of bodies.

“Scott!” Isaac shouted, pulled along behind him. He held on tight, digging claws into Scott's arm to stay together while the mob pulled at them. For a moment it worked. It seemed they would survive. Then another body barreled into Isaac and he was torn away, leaving red marks along Scott's arm which healed in the second it took for Isaac to disappear in the mob.

“Isaac!” Scott screamed. The air was full of howls and his call was lost in the cacophony, as was he.

Scott couldn't see anything and was battered in one direction, then another. Over the din he heard a familiar wail, and looked up to see a body rolling down the slope of the gorge. There was only one voice he knew that could reach that unearthly pitch, between a woman’s shriek and the moan of an owl.

“Lydia,” he whispered, and then shoved forward, trying to push his way through the crowd. There was a fight going on, atop the hills. He could see human shadows backed by moonlight and one of them had a bow and arrow. “Lydia, ALLISON!”

Suddenly Scott was grabbed, and an arm slid around his chest. Another went under his shoulder to cradled his ribs, holding him tightly against a man's body. Scott struggled, but then realized whoever had him was moving moving them both, with strength and purpose, to where he'd seen Lydia fall. Exactly where he needed to go. The smell was familiar too, sweet and sophisticated, with a hint of smug madness. Peter.

“You,” Scott started, then got cut off by a passing elbow banging his chin. Peter didn’t speak. His face was set in an irritated frown, as if stampedes were an insult rather than life threatening problem. He turned them both in the current, riding the crowd this way and that, instead of pushing against it as Scott had done, and it seemed to work. They were almost there. Scott could see the rock face. There was a flash of red in the flickering light, and Lydia's panicked smell hit him, charging straight into his brain.

“Lydia,” Scott shouted, trying tell her he was there. She was kneeling on the ground, stunned, with mud all over her expensive skirt.  Peter smoothly stepped forward, grabbed her arm and pulled Lydia up next to Scott before he could blink. Then he turned them both, and sank back into the rushing mob.

“No, wait!” Scott's voice was lost, and the three of them floated away in the crowd, leaving the fight behind them.

*

Up on the hill, Allison was running out of arrows. Her throat hurt from screaming for Lydia after she fell down the slope. One of the werewolves had thrown her friend off the edge. They'd coming swarming up the side of the gorge after Allison shot the wizard and surviving Alpha, hoping to kill them, or at least distract them so Scott and the other's could escape.

Stiles was somewhere behind her, throwing stones with surprising accuracy at the werewolves trying to sneak over the cliff. He'd hit every one so far, but he was running out of rocks too. They were under siege and going down. Allison notched her final arrow to her bow, taking aim at one of three oncoming men.

I never thought I'd die like this, she thought, and pulled her arrow to her cheek.

“Stupefy!” a strange voice yelled, and one of Allison's attackers fell in a flash of red light. She jerked in surprise and her arrow sailed away, lodging itself in the arm of another. They fell and she blinked as a thin man in a worn tweed suit came running over the crest of the hill, swinging a stick and shooting lights at the men charging her. Some of them pulled out sticks as well and began waving back. The air filled with colored light and Allison ducked down, shaking.

“Imperio, Stupefy, Protego, Oppugno.” Strange words flew over her, and on the last one all the loose stones which Stiles had flung at the werewolves rose into the air, and began pummeling the werewolves closest to Allison and Stiles. Her jaw dropped and Stiles was gaping at the display. Falling into a swamp and assuming you were in England was one thing, but somehow, flying rocks made everything more real. Then again, she'd dated a werewolf. Allison squared her jaw.

The man in tweed shouted “Protego,” and a brief flash encompassed him like a shield as he shouted at them. “Run!”

Allison didn't ask questions. She nodded, yanked Stiles to his feet and fled. Around them the hills lit up with popping cracks, as more fights broke out. Allison felt like she was running through fireworks, or an artillery bombing. Her ears were ringing, and someone had set fire to the camp below. The tents were burning and the whole canyon was awash in flame. God, Lydia was still down there.

“We have to-”

Suddenly a beam flew past her, and just as Allison turned to warn him she saw Stiles take it in the chest. His face made a befuddled expression, then his eyes went blank and he fell limply over the edge of the hill.

“Stiles!” she screamed, reaching for him and missing his sleeve by inches. She fell to the ground and time slowed as she watched his body roll down the slope into the burning camp, just like Lydia. She was paralyzed, numb and staring at the gorge as her mind tried to wrap around the fact she'd now lost both her friends. Her mother was shouting, scolding her, and telling her she needed to get up. Get up Allison, and do something!

With tears streaming down her face, she looked over her shoulder to check for danger. There was plenty, but none of it had noticed her. Shadowy figures in rags and weird hats were battling each other with smoke and air. Relatively sure she could act without being shot, Allison tucked her bow against her body, wrapped her arms around it with a prayer to her dead mother, and rolled herself over the edge after Stiles.

*

Stiles awoke choking on smoke. He blinked, and waved at the red, gold air. His dad was leaning over him and smiling. He tried to smile back. He liked his dad, he was all kinds of awesome. Something was wrong with his face though, and he kept blurring, like a dreamy after-image. His dad wasn't worried. He picked up Stiles's hand, and used it to wet his shirt in a nearby puddle before placing the wet cloth over Stiles's mouth.

“Low to the ground. That's it kiddo. Crawl, and keep your face down, just like we talked about.”

Stiles rolled over and started crawling after his dad as the man edged backward, his body wavering in the hot glow.

“Shallow breathes Stiles. Your doin' good buddy, just a little more Stiles... Stiles...”

“Stiles.”

Whoa that didn't sound like his dad. Stiles blinked, distracted. Everything was burning: flapping cloth, tent pegs, broken tables. There were a lot of feet too, rushing about. They must be in a hurry. Was he in a hurry? Probably. He swung his head, looking for his dad again. Where'd he go? Oh, there he was, still smiling and waving him on. He liked it when his dad smiled.

“Stiles!”

Suddenly he was upright, and dangling in the wind. Then his body began stumbling after the strong hand clamped on his arm. When did his dad get such long nails? There was hair in his face now too, nice hair. Stiles coughed.

“Stay with me Stiles, come on, don't spaz out. Damn it!”

Stiles saw bloody lips and a wild, yellow mane.

“Hey, Erica,” he smiled, dopey. “You're on fire.”

Erica snarled at Stiles, her inner wolf tearing at her skin. “God, what is wrong with you? Everything is on fire!”  she shouted.

She spun, looking for a way out of the alley of burning tents and fleeing strangers. Stiles was the only familiar face she'd found in this nightmare, since she was torn away from Boyd at the stage. A large pole fell with a crash beside them, and Erica covered them both as sparks flew up in a cloud. For an instant an open space appeared in the fire where the timber had stood. She rushed through, hauling Stiles with her and causing him to squawk. He would probably have scars from her claws if they survived this.

“Stiles, shut-up and help me!” she demanded, turning another corner in the fiery maze. A flash of light burst in front of her, blinding her and she stumbled back with a shriek. Another blast followed, and another until she was running the opposite way, heedless of the burning storm on either side. She held onto Stiles, desperate for someone, anyone, to see this through with her. She didn't want to die. Not alone.

Another flash burst on their left and she turned away. There were others with them now, larger, older werewolves stinking of ash and fear. They ran together, feet slipping in the hot mud. They were almost out. She could see the sky, beckoning her on.

She leapt over the last threshold of flames, crossing a ditch in the ground and landing on the other side with Stiles beside her. She gulped down the sweet, clean air, reveling in the cold. A victorious euphoria swallowed her, and she almost thought she'd survived a fire merely to die from her own relief. Until that was cut off by a new bout of terror.

The other werewolves were screaming. Some were tearing at the air, others cowering, but she couldn't see why, until Stiles bumped into her. They fell and Erica was slammed into an invisible force that sent painful, familiar shocks up her spine. White sparks shot through her and she screamed under the torture of electricity.

She felt Stiles pulling at her, and blindly rolled toward him, away from the pain. She stopped in his lap, panting, and racked with cold shakes. The worst of it passed, and when she could move again, she looked at the waiting darkness.

An inch from where she lay with Stiles was a line of blue chalk. Or something like it, which formed a curving line on the ground and she could feel the hair on her arms rise in warning. That was something she could not cross. Beyond it a coterie of men and women in cloaks looked at the captured werewolves with indifference.

“Auror Shacklebolt,” a gravely voice snapped.

“Yes, sir,” a dark man in battered leather answered.

“Get these animals stowed away, and set up the next noose.”

“Yes, sir,” Shacklebolt acknowledged, a quiet sadness slipping through his professional facade as he looked at Erica and Stiles. She snarled, showing him just where he could shove his pity. Erica didn't need sad eyes. She needed to survive, and he was just another in the line of bastards after her skin.


	5. Lydia, Scott

Late into the evening, the two most powerful wizards in Great Britain sat in their respective lairs, listening to news of the battle.

The first man plotted on a makeshift throne, in a stately manor. A great snake wound around his feet, hissing, while cloaked spies knelt and whispered. Rumor had it Macnair was dead. If so, he'd been lucky, and spared the wrath of his master for setting off the uproar they were witnessing. They may have lost their easy grip on the werewolves before things properly began. Someone was going to pay for that. Every follower hoped it wouldn't be them.

The second man waited in a tower, listening to whirring silver gadgets with laced fingers and worried eyes that had lost their twinkle. Aurror Shacklebolt had messaged briefly when he left for the raid, and details were slowly trickling. The werewolves were being hunted down. Severus had been summoned. Five Aurors had been killed, so far, and no one had seen or heard from Remus.

In one night, plans had gone cock-eyed and neither side knew why.

*

The morning dawned chill and grey over the moor, with Lydia on her back in the underbrush, counting. She had been awake for fourteen hours, and slept for three. Her ankle was throbbing at sixty six BPM. There were forty one branches over her head, two roots sticking into her back, and one caterpillar making a brave trek across her raw, dirty knee. She normally hated bugs, dirt, or camping of any kind, but today it hardly made an impression beyond the mathematics.

For example, Scott McCall had breathed two hundred twelve times since she woke up. Which, at fifteen point two gave him an average rate of fourteen breathes per minute. Either he was asleep, or he was very calm. Which meant he was ignoring her, or not. She wasn't sure which she preferred right then.

Scott wasn't someone she spent time with. He was just Allison's boyfriend, an accessory attached to her like a handbag. Lydia wouldn't even know what to say to him, if they spoke. So instead she counted, and made sure her heart kept beating by remembering all the reasons she had to be furious. Or at least, cynically prepared.

Peter was gone when she’d woken, which was one fact she liked at least.

“Umm, Lydia?” Scott asked timidly, his shoes scraping by her elbow. Not asleep then. “Are you... okay?” Silence. “Stupid question,” he mumbled.

“Stupidity is a relative term,” she answered dryly, staring at the bush. “Accumulated knowledge is static, cognitive capacity may change depending on environment.”

“Are you injured?” he asked, more specific. She idly awarded him a point for keeping up, then considered his question.

“Can't you tell?” She frowned, intrigued despite herself.

“Not, exactly."

Lydia turned to face her classmate. “Is that a not so subtle way of asking if I'm crazy right now? Because you can smell blood but not emotional trauma?”

Scott, who was laying on his stomach and looking out a hole in the bush at the vast, billowing moor, had the audacity to smile and looked relieved.

“Actually, I _can_ smell it. I think.”

“Really, and what does crazy smell like?”

He shrugged, awkward. “It depends. You weren't really smelling like anything, just sort of cold. That's why I asked. But Peter always smells sweet and sick. Like compost.”

“Where is he?” Lydia whispered, sitting up. Pain spiked through her ankle and she hissed, wrapping her skirt tightly around scraped knees.

“I'm not sure. He said he was going to look for something.”

“And we're just staying here?”

“Where do you want to go?” Scott asked, totally sincere. If she could think of anywhere to be, and any way to get there Lydia was sure that he would stand up and march out with her right then and there, using everything he had to get them home.

Home, aye, there's the rub. They were in a wasteland, five thousand twenty miles east of Beacon Hills with an ocean between. They had no food, water or money, and at the end of their very long road home...

“Jackson's dead,” she whispered, feeling detached, like drifting dust that had been left behind in the rush of a school bell. She still had Jackson's key stuck in her bra and it sat their, chilling her sternum with the ever present reminder of his cool, dead eyes.

“He.. what?!” Scott was scrambling up, facing her.

“They killed him, those Alpha's back home.”

“Lydia--”

“He was going to London this summer you know, his dad was moving the whole family. Ironic, when  you think about it. We were going to watch Hoosiers before he left. He didn't want to have sex. Said that was more like a hello, than a goodbye.” She was surprised she wasn't crying. Perhaps she'd used up all her tears last night in the fire. Her face felt sticky with leftover salt. “Now he’s gone, and we're here, stuck in the last part of Jane Eyre. Which I suppose makes Peter our St. John.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Depends,” she mumbled distractedly. “I never liked him.”

“Yeah, I don't like him either,” Scott whispered, looking at the waving gorse where Peter had disappeared. Lydia tsked, as the double meaning lost. Scott hadn't read Charlotte Bronte. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but Lydia didn't want to hear it. Not if it was about Jackson.

“How far did we come last night?” She changed the subject, and after a moment Scott came to sit by her, his soot stained jeans rubbing her knee. She would have complained but, what was a little extra dirt between victims of fortune.

“Maybe, twelve, fourteen miles. I think the worst of it's over now. The fire went out awhile ago and the...” Scott broke off, rubbing his arms.

“And what?”

“And the screaming.”

“Do you think Allison--”

“They made it out,” Scott declared. “They had to.”

Lydia said nothing. She could see the appeal of believing that, but one of the cons of having an active mind that made teachers drool over your test scores, was that she couldn't turn off her brain long enough to indulge in the ignorance of hope. Which was basically believing things would turn out for the best when you had no evidence for it. Scott didn't seem like the ignorant type. She was sure he knew the odds as well as her, but his ability to choose hope despite this was not something Lydia shared.

She didn't remember much of last night, besides running. Once Peter got them out of the canyon, he just kept going. The flashing hills were a minefield of danger, and Lydia had always been practical. She didn’t care to stay behind and get burned.

Peter had found this nook where the ground sank and formed a hidden den under the shrubbery. It looked like just another shallow bush from above, and Peter had slid underneath, dragging them both with him and keeping an arm around Scott when he tried to struggle out again.

It probably saved his life, because from their hiding place Lydia had watched shadowy figures shoot down one fleeing werewolf after another, until finally they were the only ones left on the moor. She'd succumbed to exhaustion with Scott tucked beside her, and Peter watching the horizon.

“How long has he been gone?” Lydia sniffed.

“Not sure. Maybe an hour? He was --” Scott stopped, snapping his head to the right, instantly alert. If this was Prada, her dog's ears would be pricked up, ready to release hell on the mailman.

“What is it,” Lydia shuddered, backing deeper into the bush. Scott crawled forward, peering outside. They waited, tense and silent.

Then Scott whispered, “someone's coming.”

Lydia closed her hand around a stone, her heart pounding against Jackson's key. A crackle of rough steps came nearer. Then a pair of heavy, dark boots appeared before their bush and Peter crouched down, cocking his head to look at them both. Lydia sighed.

“Well, it's a pleasant surprise to see you both where I left you,” Peter remarked. He looked pleased with himself, but Scott was still tense when he crawled out to meet him.

“What did you just do?” Scott demanded, standing. Lydia didn't follow, but Peter smirked at McCall from where he knelt over a lumpy brown traveling pack.

“I acquired some necessities.”

“You killed someone,” Scott accused, not backing away from his spot between Peter and the bush. Lydia both appreciated the heroism and found it annoyingly obvious.

“Yes, I did.” Peter replied with the slightly proud, creepy smile he'd often worn in Lydia's dreams. “An Auror, if you want to know.”

“A what?”

“Someone very dangerous, who would have shot first and asked questions never. Now, who's hungry?” Peter dropped a leather pack on the ground. Lydia felt repelled at the idea of eating anything acquired by this man, but she hadn't had any food since yesterday and her stomach rumbled on its own.

“You can't just kill people,” Scott insisted.

“Do you ever get tired of being so unshakably moral?” Peter asked with a curious squint.

“Do you get tired of being unscrupulous?”

“I haven't needed to yet.”

“You had your throat slashed open,” Scott countered.

“And if I'd been as moral as you, I'd still be that way,” Peter eyed Lydia through the branches, and she shivered. Yes, you should be dead, she thought viciously, but since you're not... She crawled out from under the shrub, pushing at Scott's legs until he moved aside for her, and she could sit before their monstrous St. John. She didn't bother trying to stand, her ankle felt squishy and she was sure it was sprained. Which made running for her less of an option.

She had no illusions about Peter, and she was sure he knew that. He’d attacked her, stalked her, and terrorized her mind. Whatever he’d done to Scott was bad too, because Peter looked at him with the same possessive gleam she always received. They were both waiting for an opportunity to be free from Peter, but she could play nice with him in the meantime, if it meant she didn't become lunch. Just don't play so nice you wake up with Stockholm syndrome, she reminded herself. Lack of abuse doesn't equal kindness.

“We need to go back,” Scott was still arguing. “We have to look for the others.”

“What do you expect find, Scott? The entire canyon was in flames,” Peter rolled his eyes.

“They could have gotten out,” Scott insisted. “We did.”

“No, I did, and I was lucky I found you both quickly enough to take you with me.”

“You want a thank you?” Scott choked. “You didn't even look for them!”

“There is nothing left there, Scott,” Peter argued, disturbingly gentle.

“They can't be dead!”

“Maybe,” Peter allowed. “But if they're not, then they left that burning hell-hole as quickly as we did and I don't know how to search an entire countryside that smells like ash and death.”

“If they got out, then they'd search for us. We should... hey, Lydia, your phone, do you still have--”

Lydia pulled out the wreckage of her cell phone without a word. The screen was cracked, the case broken and the circuitry melted.

“Damn,” Scott deflated. “Okay, then the nearest town. That's where we should head, they've gotta have police or a public phone. Stiles will call his dad, and we just need to--”

“Get home Scott?” Peter taunted, and Scott ground his jaw, glaring. “Then what? How are you going to defeat a pack of Alpha's who killed one of your friends and left us beaten in minutes?”

“We'll think of something. We are not _staying_ in England,” Scott vowed. Peter was quiet a second too long, fingering the broken straps of the bag and Lydia froze. A creeping horror curled her hands into fists. Would Peter really want to keep them here forever? in Europe? Was that his grand plan? Lydia shivered. She'd always wanted to tour Switzerland, admire the Hadron Collider, and shop around Zurich, but that was for a summer. She’d never live there indefinitely. She had her mother at home. She had plans for MIT, or maybe Harvard. She wasn't going to be some psychotic's ornament for the next fifty years.

“Of course not,” Peter smiled thinly. “But we do need a few things before we go charging back to California. Come on Scott, you're the thinker. You know I'm right.”

Scott nodded cautiously, “We need a plan.”

“We need to better the odds.”

“What we need, is a car,” Lydia snapped, looking over the dreary hills.

“I have one better,” Peter answered triumphantly and patted the bag on the ground. Lydia looked away from the blood stained sides while Peter upended the sack, sending a load of junk pouring out. Thick leather tomes, spinning globes, vials of gluttonous brew, a sewing kit, one neatly packaged meat pie, it went on and on. Lydia watched, fascinated, as her understanding of mass, weight and volume was more or less gutted before her eyes, and the pile of clutter grew so large it dwarfed the sack itself.

“It's bigger on the inside,” she blinked, snatching the bag from Peter as soon as the last trinket fell. She poked the sack, peered inside and recklessly stuck her arm down it. The bag went up to her shoulder with room to spare, despite being half that size outside. She added “re-write the law of conservation of mass, possible graduate thesis,” to her mental life plan.

Peter was pecking through the clutter, and tossing things over his shoulder.

“What are you looking for?” Scott asked, tearing the meat pie into the thirds for them. Lydia devoured the piece he handed her, still examining the bag.

“A panic button,” Peter answered.

“Huh?”

Peter inspected a small grey glass, before throwing it away. “An emergency exit, if you will. They're usually carried in California, and I’m hoping it isn't too different here.”

A thin book landed beside Lydia, the spine reading “Dark Forces: A guide to self protection.” A wrinkled turnip followed. Or it might have been a shrunken head.

“Usually?” Lydia gulped. “There's more of them back home?”

“Of course there are,” Peter's wicked eyes twinkled at her. “You didn't think Europe had a monopoly on witchcraft, did you?”

“No,” Lydia looked away. She knew plenty about witchcraft, trances, purple flowers and dead men in your dreams.

“Thankfully, most wizards don't care about the likes of us back home. We stay out of their way, and they stay out of ours. Though I hear there's a quite the booming underground in San Franciso. In Britain, things are a little more complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Scott asked.

“Ah, this could be useful,” Peter held up a small pouch, and Scott's question went unanswered because the instant Peter touched it a tiny face appeared on the bag and began hurling obscenities.

“Hands off you bugger. Thief! Thief! I'm being stolen!”

Scott and Lydia jumped. Peter grabbed a knife and sliced the lacings on the pouch, letting thick gold coins spill from its innards onto the ground. If that was supposed to silence the pouch, it was sadly unsuccessful. With the first cut the pouch began wailing at an even higher pitch, becoming totally incoherent. Peter got ready to stab it again.

“Stop it!” Lydia shrieked, her sharp voice outdoing the bag's howling. Peter froze. “You're hurting him,” she snatched the bag away, while Peter blinked in surprise.

“It's a wallet. It's not alive,” Peter sneered. “It doesn't have any more feelings than your i-phone.”

“Phone's don't cry,” Scott whispered, crouching by Lydia who was cradling the bag. It's cries mellowed into weak sobbing.

“Semantics,” Peter rolled his eyes. “Keep it if you want, but make it quiet. We don't know who else is still out here.” He scanned the hills nervously.

Lydia shushed the pouch, bending over it. The pouch, alive or not, seemed to understand it's existence was in peril and sucked down pained sobs until it was simply looking dolefully up at her and Scott, tears of oil leaking down it's sides.

“It'll be okay,” She promised in a whisper, and when Peter turned away she slipped the pouch into the bag of eternal space, along with a sewing kit and pulled the strap over her shoulder.

Peter gathered the money, stuffing it in his coat, and kicking a few vials away as he stood, offering a hand to each of them with imperious demand. Lydia squared her chin and took it. Show no fear, she reminded herself as she rose, keeping off her bad ankle. Scott stood too, but ignored Peter's hand.

Peter looked amused, in that condescending way adults had when they thought you'd done something childishly cute. “We have to be touching for this to work, Scott.”

“For what to work?” Scott hedged.

Peter held up an amulet he'd retrieved from the junk pile. “Our way out. Do you trust me?”

“No.” Scott replied bluntly. Of course they didn't trust him.

“Fair enough,” Peter agreed. “This should take us somewhere populated at least, though I'm not sure where. Shall we, Lydia?” Peter turned to her like a gentleman, bowing slightly. She stared pointedly at Scott. There is nothing here and I'm not staying in the middle of nowhere just so I can starve like a regency heroine, but don't you dare leave me alone with him. Scott got the message, and took Peter's elbow.

Peter counted to three, then pressed the stone pendant and there was a sharp whirring sensation, like being on a roller-coaster that was turning sideways. When they stopped, and Lydia opened her eyes, she was met with a cheerful brick wall covered in parchment notices, and moving pictures. The bleak sound of the moor was replaced with a cacophony of chatter, tapping feet, bangs and pops. They found themselves in a fantastical street filled with shops and happy families carrying broomsticks. Lydia heroically held onto her vomit at the sudden change.

“You, stop right there!”

She froze, then cautiously turned and amid the colorful people in costume, she saw a stingy looking man leaning out of a wooden booth across the way. He had an unpleasant mouth and suspicious eyes. The stall, like a carnival ticket taker, was attached to a low fence surrounding the red circle which had been painted under Lydia's feet.

“This portkey landing is only for registered Auror's.” He looked over their grubby appearance, and fingered a stick, like the men last night had. “Who gave you access?”

“Crap,” Scott whispered.

“Ah,” Peter stepped forward, hands up and holding out the amulet “Officer, I'm afraid there's been a slight mix-up.” His voice turned hypnotic, and the man almost grudgingly lowered his stick. In that split second Peter punched the man in the nose, then grabbed the stick while blood spurted over the officer's lips.

“Whoa!” Scott cried. Peter snapped the branch in half, then dashed into the crowd with Scott and Lydia behind him.

“Why would you do that?” Scott protested, as they hurried into the main street, and shouts broke out behind them.

Lydia only made it a few steps before her ankle gave out and she fell, scraping her hands on the cobbled street and tearing open her knees again. Peter didn't stop, but Scott pulled her up with a warm hand and hitched her onto his back, piggy back style. He hurried after Peter, carrying her, and when they turned a corner Peter pulled them into a dingy lane off the main street. A tarnished plaque on the wall welcomed them to Knockturn Alley.

The wall's here were not cheerful, but stained black with grime. Peter eased the three of them along, like they were just taking a stroll. As innocent as anyone would be in a place like this.

Lydia grimaced at the people in crooked witch's hats who whispered together as they passed. She was painfully aware of her muddy, bruised appearance, but no one said a word to them. She was reminded of her last trip to the city, and the man she'd seen shooting up needles behind a dumpster. No one had said a word to him either. Peter brought her to such classy places.

They passed a number of gloomy signs, advertising flesh eating slug repellent or sporting creepy drawings of a hangman's noose. She clung tighter to Scott. Then, at the mouth of the alley a young man in very official looking robes appeared, and ordered everyone to stop what they were doing. Everyone did the exact opposite.

As soon as the words Ministry Inspection came from the officer's mouth they scattered. The policeman, for he certainly looked like a deputy with that double golden “M” shined to perfection on his chest, looked astonished that his order been blatantly disobeyed.

Peter ducked beneath an overhang, pulling them after him. A few other dissolute characters came to hide under the same eave, while shop owners were closing their shutters, turning over closed signs and one woman was squalling about trampled rights. Lydia noticed her cart had bones and fingers for sale.

The fresh faced deputy was being held up by a tiny old man viciously poking him with a cane.

“I am a Ministry Auror - stop that - I am pursuing three criminals who – if you do not stop that I will have you held in contempt sir, obstructing Ministry justice is a serious – owe!”

Someone else shouted at him, and Lydia stared as huge boils broke out on his face, then fungus grew from his head, his tongue swelled and flowed out of his mouth like a worm, and he quickly became unrecognizable as he was summarily chased from the alley by the shabby residents. Lydia was chilled at how easily he'd been turned into an oozing mess.

“Happens every month, like clockwork,” a hooded woman beside them sneered. “Some new rookie thinks 'e can come round, and make demands. Probably Gryffindor. All brawn and no brains that lot.” She turned on them, black kohl smeared under her eyes. “I wouldn't worry about it. Lucky you got a recruit on your tail o’course. If Shacklebolt or ol' Mad-eye had been in the alley today you’d be kissing your wands goodbye.”

“We'll keep that mind,” Peter answered.

“Still, you could use a change in appearance.” She looked them over with a greedy glint. “Never hurts to be extra cautious. Couple of glamours, some new hair. If you've got blood I know a man can do wonders. He runs a shop just up the way. Good, honest business too. Tell 'em Mincy sent you, and he'll give you half price.”

“A family trade?” Peter hinted. Mincy grinned, showing a row of greenish teeth before slipping back into the alley. “Well, I’m always happy to support local business,” Peter called after her, sounding a little put out she disappeared before he got in the joke.


	6. Erica, Stiles

“Truth, or dare?”

“Truth.”

“How many prison's do you think you'll see the inside of?” Erica whispered.

“Actually, I always thought I'd see a lot. Just from the other side,” Stiles croaked back, sounding like a cigarette addict and wringing his fingers. He'd finally stopped wheezing from smoke inhalation around two that morning, and he was lucid now. He'd spent last night acting like he was drunk.

One of the other prisoners said he was Confunded, whatever that meant, and it would wear off eventually. Neither of them got any sleep, because he'd made a habit of wandering and Erica, for all her hard edges wouldn't leave him alone with the werewolves sharing their cell. So they'd filled the wee hours with rock-paper-scissors, Pat-a-cake, thumb wrestling, and one interminable period when Stiles wanted to play riddles and wouldn't use anything but some damn egg poem. Erica had never read The Hobbit and now, she never wanted to.

Stiles was more or less himself again now, but Erica felt strung out.

“So, you want to be in law?” She pulled at her singed hair. Her face was smudged and her chest spattered with dried mud and blood. She felt like a warning sign. The girl mother's pointed to, when threatening their kids. Be good, or you'll end up like her.

“I just always wanted to be like my Dad,” Stiles answered. “What about you?”

Erica shrugged, wistful. “Don't know. I never actually made a plan. My mom told me I'd get disability, and nobody wants a seizure risk on the job. If I wasn't barred, anyway.”

“Barred?”

“Yeah. No police work for epileptics. No military, no sports, nothing involving machinery or responsibility. I just had a really long list of things I couldn't do.”

“Oh.”

“Prison probably isn't that far from what my mom had in mind, actually. I just never thought it'd be so literal. I thought I escaped.”

Instead she'd been paralyzed, impaled with an iron crown, shot, strung up, and tortured. Then caught by Alphas, sent to England, locked in a cave, and dragged out again to do the dirty work. They told her it was their way. That werewolves always fought, and the man they had for her would die anyway. If she couldn't kill him, she might as well join him because Greyback's pack had no use for a she-wolf without bite. Unless she was on her back.

Erica didn't wait for them to force her. She'd been desperate enough to rip someone else in half rather than die, or worse. She didn't even know his name. She would've liked to know what to call the man who'd look at her with pity, and whispered that he was sorry while she slashed his throat. She didn't even realize his eyes had been red, like Derek's, until the body was cold and she was looking in a muddy pool with his stolen eyes staring back at her.

Now she was sitting in prison, again. Waiting with all the other werewolves who'd been corralled into this limbo like dungeon. Perhaps they were in Translyvania. Dungeons seemed like the type of dramatic things that belonged in a translyvanian castle. At least she and Stiles were blending in fantastically. No one knew, or cared, that they'd been part of Derek Hale's rebellion.

Rumors about him had been flying all night. Some thought he was dead, and If he wasn't other's planned to kill him. A precious few like her were silent, but one thing was sure, Fenrir Greyback's hold over England was gone.

If Derek was alive, would he come looking for her again? She hadn't counted on a rescue before. After all, she wasn't the type of girl people cared about searching for. Her mother was probably relieved, dotting fake tears from her eyes while the police buried Erica's file in a box of cold cases. Her mom would be glad she could have another, healthy, child now.

Boyd would look for her. Unless he was trapped down here, like her, or shot dead on the moor.

“You know, I always imagined Dracula's dungeon would look like this,” Stiles interrupted her brooding. “If they added a few bats, it'd complete the whole gothic theme. Course, then we'd be sitting in guano.” Stiles scratched his chin. “Maybe missing a little ambiance won't kill us.” 

“Ever wonder what will?” Erica taunted, smothering Stiles petty attempt at moral support with her darker, gallows humor.

Stiles gulped. “Look, we just gotta stay positive. That's what Scott always does. Maybe we could say we need to use the bathroom. That always works right?”

“Nope.”

“What, did you try?”

“Yes, Stiles, I tried and the nice officer's told me to piss in the corner like everyone else.”

“Wow. That's cold. Did you really--” He began, and Erica glared. “No you're right, bad question. So, uh, we think of something else. We're gonna get out of here, Erica,” he insisted.

“One way, or another,” she agreed, dark power roiling sluggishly inside her. “I think I've seen enough of prisons to last a lifetime,” and she rose, prowling toward the bars.

“Uh, Erica, what are you doing?” Stiles fidgeted.

She ignored him, and kicked out with a snarl, sending her impotent fury into the cell door. The bars made a horrible clang when her boot hit and Erica kicked again, out of spite. She wasn't invisible. She wasn't going to melt away down here, like an abandoned lipstick tube. Clang, went the bars. Clang, clang.

“Please, stop that,” a stiff voice asked, and young man appeared before them, carrying an official looking clipboard and giant feather quill. Erica paused her assault on the door, tilting her head in curiosity.

He was tall and thin, with curly red hair and horn rimmed spectacles. He couldn't be much older than her, and much too young for the perfectly ironed pinstriped suit-robe in her opinion. He looked determined, if slightly constipated, and a hint of fear drifted toward Erica. She rolled the scent around on her tongue enjoying the complex flavor of nerves and ambition. Erica liked ambition. She also liked how his eyes got stuck on her breasts in a naive sort of way. More like a boy at school, then the rabid men from Greyback's pack. Boys she could handle.

Erica writhed against the bars. “See something you like?” She teased maliciously.

“I, erm, uh. No, thank you. I just need your names.”

“For what?”

“The Ministry requires every arrest be properly processed, before trial,” he replied formally.

“Whoa, trial, what trial?” Stiles banged into Erica's shoulder, squishing his face into the bars. “Have we even been charged with something?”

Behind them other prisoners rumbled with interest and discontent.

“There are a variety of crimes being written up, the least of which are your registry violations,” the red-head sniffed, eying the dirty masses in the cell. “I'm sure a proper lawyer from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures will inform you of the case details.”

“Department--”

“Of regulation?”

“And Control of Magical Creatures, yes. Specifically, Werewolf Support Services.”

“Oh, you've got to be kidding me,” Stiles ran a hand down his face, pulling at the circles under his eyes like a cartoon.

“Wait, did you say one lawyer, for all of us?” Erica looked back at the two dozen pallid faces behind them. That was only this cell, and she'd heard howling and barking all the way down the hall last night.

“Yes, well, in a case with mass offenders--”    

“Offenders! We haven't done any offending,” Stiles railed. “We're very inoffensive. Almost polite. In fact, I am offended at the accusation. We ran away from the big scary monsters trying to kill us, and now you're gonna charge us with... what? What are we even doing in here?!” Stiles kicked the bars of the cell and then stumbled back, holding his foot. “Owe, owe, pain, so much pain. I think I broke something.” 

Everyone went deadly still, and Erica winced. That little shit, he just had to go and blow it all, didn't he. She'd spent the whole night staying up and listening to stupid egg riddles so he could expose himself as human like this, wasting her efforts to protect him.

The werewolves were shifting restlessly. Some were sniffing the air, others growling or licking their chops. They'd go for his throat, if they decided he wasn't one of them, and she couldn't stop all of them. It'd be a slaughter-house in here. She almost punched Stiles, but  managed to restrain herself and face the back of the cell instead, popping her claws out.

“You... you're not a--” The red-head bumbled, then pulled a wooden stick from his pocket.

Stiles jumped back. “Whoa, whoa! Point that thing somewhere else.”

The errand boy paused, frowning, and then waved in a pompous motion. The other prisoners were starting to crowd forward. Erica snarled, and a few of the more timid ones backed away.

“Mr. Dillwater!” Their clipboard wielding visitor called down the hall, and with a wave of his stick called up a glowing wisp that flew away. Then he jabbed at the crowd in the cell. “Right you lot, stand back.” Everyone backed away. “Now you,” he pointed at Stiles and Stiles pointed back at himself, just to make sure. “Yes, you, come up here.”

Stiles crab walked to the bars, suspicious. The wizard mumbled something and a new set of bars suddenly grew up from the ground between Stiles and the werewolves, including Erica.

“Wait!” she dashed forward and Stiles reached for her, but they were too late and both were brought up short by the second cage.

“What the hell is going on?” Stiles turned, glaring at their captor.

“What's your name, please?” The red-head requested, polite as ever.

“Batman,” Stiles snapped in open rebellion. The sarcasm was unfortunately lost on the man.

“First name or last?”

Stiles fumbled, jaw dropping. “Wha, uh... both?”

“Mr. Man, first name, Bat.”

Stiles looked at Erica, bewildered. She didn't get it either, but Stiles could deal with his own, very mild, problems. She had a dozen angry, pent up werewolves sneaking up on her back. She snapped her teeth at one who got too close. Things were about to get ugly on her side of the cage when a new man came puffing down the corridor, holding his belly with one hand.

“I say, Witherly!” The man called. He made a sad counterpart to his prim colleague, wearing a stained shirt and squashed hat.

“It's Weasley, sir,” the red-head corrected the man. 

“Yes, fine, Westley, what's all this about?”

“I believe this boy is not a werewolf, Sir.” Weasley declared, standing at attention. Mr. Dillwater didn't seem to notice, or care, about the effort. He peered through the bars with red rimmed eyes, squinting at Stiles who waved slowly like a side show freak mocking his audience. 

Eventually Dillwater grunted. “Well, better get him out of there, before he becomes one. Of course that'd make our paperwork a lot easier,” he added, contemplatively.

“Sir!” Weasley protested, looking shocked.

“Yes, yes, alright,” Dillwater grumbled, and waved at the cell. “You, come along with me,” he ordered. Stiles started shaking his head. Then he seemed to think better of it, paused, and looked back at Erica. An awful sinking feeling washed over her. No, he wasn't going to leave. Was he? Really? Oh god he was. I should have known. Of course you'd run the minute you had the chance. Its what you do.

“Just go.” Her smile turned bitter, voice cracking on the words as she gave him leave to save himself. Why try and hold onto something that was just going to disappoint you.

“Erica,” Stiles hesitated.

“Go,” she ordered. Go now, and spare me the poor attempt at an excuse I can see you trying to make.

“I wa--”

“Go!” She shouted and slammed herself against the bars. Stiles flinched, then turned and stepped into the hall. Mr. Dillwater patted him on the shoulder, as if to say, “there, there”. Erica twisted her hands on the iron rungs, tears pricking her eyes. She wanted to howl, kill something, throw herself against her cage and scream at Stiles for not being Boyd. Vernon would never leave her like this. Just before he turned the corner though, Stiles paused.

“Hey, Erica. Truth or dare,” he asked, softly.

She didn't want to answer, she was too angry, but then this might be the last time she ever saw him. So what the hell. “Truth,” she whispered.

“Did you really used to have a crush on me?” He looked back with a gulp.

“Once,” she answered. “When I was human, and you were just a stupid boy with the batman lunchbox who didn't see anyone but Lydia Martin.”

“Before werewolves.”

“And before you left me in Argent's basement,” she added with a final dig. Stiles withered where he stood and then turned away, following Dillwater down the hall.

The pudgy man's voice drifted back, saying, “what's a nice young lad like you doing with a girl like that? Her lot's dangerous you know.”

Silence followed. The prisoners behind Erica shuffled back to their places, grumbling, and she stood alone, holding onto the moment like it was a Seizure Orral, and any minute she might tip over an edge there was no coming back from. Maybe if she remained perfectly still, she could head it off. Take your meds, avoid stress, and you might not crack. That was always the mantra.

“Erm,” Weasley coughed, sounding unnaturally loud in the dungeon. Erica blinked at him. “Are you all right?” He asked.

“I'm indestructible,” Erica chuckled eerily. Then she took a deep breath, shoved down the unstable feeling in her chest, and put on a teasing smile for effect. “Why, you wanna try me on for size?” She arched into the jail bars. 

“No! Ah, what I mean is--”

“Come on. Doing a wild thing in the dungeon? It'd be hot.”

“If you continue to, assault, the bars” he eyed Erica's hips where they pressed indecently against her cage. “I'll have to write you up. For damage to government property.”

“I could assault you instead,” she hissed.

Weasley stiffened. “Is that threat?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“I, uh, will need your name miss--”

“Catwoman.”

Weasley paused with his fluffy quill in the air. “Didn't your friend call your Erica?”

“He's not my friend,” she retorted. “And neither are you.”

“I am a Ministry Employee--”

“Should that mean something to me?”

“Conducting an official report,” he finished, persistently. She wondered if he made it through most of his life on persistence. “I need your full name. Any intentionally misleading information will complicate your case. We are trying to sort out what happened, and who is at fault, or not.” Erica said nothing, and Weasley sighed dropping his quill and leaving it floating in the air beside him. Erica was duelly impressed by the magic trick, but tried not to show it. “How old are you?” he finally inquired, gently, as if he were asking a toddler how they got lost in the zoo.

“Sixteen,” she replied, soft and surprised.

Weasley looked a little ill, and fiddled with his clipboard. “I have brothers your age. Well, Fred and George just got their licenses, so they're a bit older. They're being a terrible nuisance about it all, of course. I was never that bad when I got my Apparation certificate. Ron's actually just fifteen. I --” he stopped babbling. “I couldn't stand to see them--”

“Where I am?” she finished for him.

He cleared his throat. “The Ministry will make all acceptable considerations in the case. You're under-age, you'll probably get a warning, or a minor hearing--”

“Don't bet on it,” a sullen voice interrupted. One of the other prisoners, a broad, mean looking Alpha, spat on the floor. “You'll get sent to Azkaban with the rest of us. Wizards don't give a flip about anyone but themselves, 'specially anyone who ain't pure no more. They make up rules, just so they can use 'em to get rid of you.”

“That's preposterous.” Weasley argued. “The Ministry doesn't imprison just anyone. We have laws, and procedures.”

Erica looked around at all the pale, squalid faces behind her. Some were cruel, some were sad, some were hopeful, and some looked like they'd just given up and stared at nothing, rocking slightly. She nodded at them. “Your law looks more like guilty, until proven innocent to me.”

Weasley sighed. “Will you, please, tell me your name?”

“Erica.”    

“And...?” he prompted

“Just Erica.”

“Silence will hurt your case,” Weasley pleaded.

Erica shrugged. “I'm pretty used to being hurt by now." 

She left Weasley standing lamely in front of the bars, his quill twitching in the air like an unhappy pet. He spent the next unpleasant hour wrangling names from the inmates, and seemed to give up on bargaining after her. He just accepted whatever they told him, even when it was obviously a lie.

When he was finally done he said “Your trial will be in a few weeks,” and marched off, to begin taking names at the other cells.

Erica hung on the bars in a tired slump. The drip, drip of water echoed back to her, each one falling on her ears like a slap, as if the whole world were saying “lost, lost, lost.” Her body was vibrating with the unfairness of it all, and after awhile she just couldn't hold it. Her spine bowed and she released a long, hard scream that tore up her insides as it left, taking her rage and abandonment with it. Every creature on the level shivered as it passed, as if they could see the ghost of her streaking by. When it was all gone, Erica felt hollow, and her eyes were glowing deep red in the dark.

Percy Weasley shivered, clutched his board like it was Gryffindors shield, and looked over his shoulder for the rest of the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers. This chapter is rather late because I had to hop off the grid for week, helping to set-up and take-down a wedding, and now of course I have gotten sick as well. So I have fallen woefully behind on my writing schedule and future chapters will be slow in coming for awhile. Never fear though, I am still typing away!


	7. Allison, Pack

Allison tip-toed through the cold, smoking debris of the camp. Her bow was slung across her back, her quiver empty but for three lucky arrows she'd found on her trek. Silence bore down on her. The ground crunched beneath her feet, and every rustle made her flinch and duck, afraid she'd been seen. Some shadowy figures were still drifting by, lost in fog, though Allison wasn't sure if they were Werewolves, shooters, or ghosts.

Allison had been marching since morning. She’d never found her friends, though she’d run from fire to fire last night looking for them. Eventually she was forced to hide in a clutch of rocks till the battle died off and she slept. Now, she was searching the length of camp, hoping she wouldn't find their remains. There wasn't much left here, besides bodies. It was a home for crows and one brave wild hog that had been chewing on a body under a tent. Her stomach had rebelled at the sight, and she'd quietly vomited into a fire pit, grateful she was alone

She’d stopped at an overturned cook pot, forcing herself to tear at the left over bread, though it was hard and tasted like ash. Food was food, and she was scavenging with ruthless efficiency. A half full bottle of wine quenched her thirst, but made her a little woozy. An empty tankard, knife, leather gauntlets, and knitted cap found their way into a satchel she'd stolen off a corpse. A dark overcoat, which swept around her ankles covered her burned sweater and kept away the chill.

If her mother saw her now, maybe she'd finally proud of the daughter she'd born and of how far Allison had crawled, starving and hiding.  

With perserverance, she made her way to the center gorge where the worst fighting had gone down, and where the most terrifying sight of all rested in the sky like a billboard for a haunted house. A huge skull, made of greenish smog with a snake twisting out of it's mouth, glowered down at her.

She rounded a bend in the cliff and saw a huge silhouette, looming like a ghostly hill amid the wreckage. Two more of her arrows were sticking out the top, and the closer she came the better she could see the rise and fall of it's breathing. Not far beyond it, a headless body lay in twisted repose, crows pecking at the remains. She quietly notched an arrow to her bow and approached the surviving Alpha.

She aimed high as she rounded the body, her father and grandfather's voices whispering in her head. One arrow to the eye, and it would be dead, give it enough force and the shaft will sink straight through to the brain. Leave it in long enough to separate the head from the body and then … Allison blinked.  

There was someone else here. A figure crouched beside the beast, resting a hand on it's flank. He was tall, wiry, with curly hair. He looked up and Allison's breath rushed out of her in relief.

“Isaac,” she croaked, lowering her bow. Her throat was raw, and painful, the sound of her own voice shocking to her. She hadn't spoken all day.

“Allison? You're alive?” He trembled, pale with sweat. There was black blood all over his front, but, she realized, it wasn't his. It was from that thing beside him.

“Stand back Isaac,” she rasped, aiming her bow at the beast's roving eye, which had opened and was staring up at her from the ground.

“Whoa.” Isaac stood, holding out his hands. The Alpha's muzzle was mashed in the dirt, it's body slumped in defeat and it didn't bother trying to move away, just blinked at her like a lamb on the altar. She felt vomit rising in her throat again.

“Stand back,” she ordered, voice breaking. I'm going to kill it. For Lydia, and Scott and all the others.

“No, Allison, It's Derek!” Isaac said, trying to step between her and the monster. Given the Alpha was five times his size and an easy target, it was a poor attempt at self sacrifice, but Allison paused anyway. Her arrow wobbled.

“How do you know?” She demanded.

“I just... I don't know how, I just do. It's him.”

The beast closed it’s eye with a moan.

“I don't believe you,” Allison shook her head desperately. What if Isaac was wrong, and they died because she didn't shoot now. Shoot him Allison, she imagined her mother's harpy shriek in her ear, and Allison's breath turned ragged and wet.

“Look, ask him,” Isaac insisted, still trying to block her arrow.

“What?”

“Ask him something, and he'll prove it.”

The animal opened a weary red eye again, and blinked at her. Allison took a shaky breath.

“Okay, Derek, if that's your name. Blink once for yes, and twice for no, and if you're wrong this arrow is the last thing you’ll ever see,” she threatened. The eye blinked at her. She searched for something to ask, something private that only they would know. It was hard. They never spoke, and hardly ever saw each other except... “Did you kill my aunt?” The eye blinked twice. “Did you kill my mom?” Again, the eye blinked twice, and narrowed. Finally Allison whispered “I saw you hurt once. Not like this but... but still bad, so, was it in a basement --” and before she could add with chains, or a car battery, Derek had blinked once. As if he too wanted to escape saying she'd seen him tortured, and forget that night.

Allison carefully let her arrow drop, point toward the ground, and then she collapsed on her knees by Derek's muzzle.

Tears were coming now, big ugly sobs with snot and a racking cough. She didn’t understand why she was suddenly breaking down. “It's the adrenaline, Allison,” she imagined her father saying, in his soft, gruff way. Her mother would've just snapped at her to pick up her things. Her bow was in the mud, and her rescued arrows had spilled from her quiver onto the ground. That failure made her cry harder, even though it was such a stupid, little thing. To top it off Derek and Isaac Lahey, of all people, were witnessing her humiliation. Why did she have to find them instead of Scott, or Lydia?

She wiped furiously at her face, and froze when she felt a cautious hand on her spine. She looked up and in Derek's glistening eye she saw Isaac's reflection behind her. He was crouched as far away as he could get and staring at his arm as if it had betrayed him, and he didn't know why. He made an abortive twitch, but his hand steadfastly remained on her back, stretching between them like an unstable bridge.

“I shouldn't be doing this,” Allison finally gasped.

“Well, it seems fair. I had mine earlier.” Isaac offered, clearing his throat.

“You're saying this makes us even?”

“I'm not saying anything,” Isaac hedged, then eventually whispered “Where's Scott?”

Allison shook her head. “I don't know. I can't find Lydia either.”

Derek moaned sadly at them, a huge paw scraping the ground in a feeble attempt to rise. His eye was weeping silently, and he really looked awful. Gaping wounds covered his sides, face, and underbelly, leaving his fur tacky with blood.

“Derek's really hurt,” Isaac prodded her, biting his nail and looking lost. He didn't have any idea what to do, she realized. He'd probably just been sitting here, begging Derek to get up. As if he could. She couldn't think of anything to help the gaping rents in his sides, but the other wounds...

“We should get those arrows out,” Allison mumbled idly.

Or, I could leave them, she thought. I could walk away right now. Derek would deserve it. He's responsible for my mother's death, even if he didn't slide in the knife himself. Gerard would leave them. No, he'd probably cut them in half before he left. She shuddered at the thought. She didn't want to be like that man. Don't be weak Allison, she reminded herself. If you're going to do something, don't do it half way. Choose to kill them, or save them, but if you're going to argue about responsibility, then you're responsible for either choice.

So, she would have to stay and help them, because she couldn't kill them. Not like this, when Derek could barely move, and Isaac was looking at her with lost-boy eyes. It would just feel like murder, and the image of herself sawing at his huge neck with her little knife made her sick. Besides, she had questions that Derek couldn't answer if he was dead, and she wanted her arrows back. So she gathered the bolts she'd dropped on the ground, and handed Isaac her bow and quiver.

“Hold these,” she said and trudged up to Derek's massive flank. She grabbed two handfuls of thick, matted fur, set her heel into his belly, and started climbing him like a mountain. Derek made gruff, unhappy sounds as she scaled his frame.

“Uh, Allison, I think you're hurting him.”

“Yeah, well Derek’s feelings aren't really a priority for me.” She grunted, digging her boot a little harder into his side, just because. Derek groaned and somehow made it sound like an insult without the need for words.

“Funny, I was thinking the same about you,” Isaac muttered back at her. “Maybe we should get those out some other way.”

“I'm open to suggestions,” Allison challenged, reaching the crest of Derek's shoulder and swinging one leg over his withers. Isaac remained noticeably silent, so Allison took a firm grip on Derek's fur and leaned down to peer at his back.

The arrows were on his far side, sloping toward the ground. They looked okay, the shafts smooth and unbroken and the nylon feathers only a little ragged. Hopefully her arrowheads were just as tough. They were in pretty deep though. Black blood welled sluggishly around the wounds. She laid her other hand gently on Derek's shoulder, and his hide twitched under her palm.

“Derek, I have to dig these out,” she warned. Derek snuffled. “Don't...” roll over and squash me, she thought, suddenly very aware of her vulnerable position on his back. Assuming he could move at all. “Try not to yell, I don't know who's still out here. Isaac.”

“Yeah?”

“Hold his jaw, just in case.”

“You're kidding right?”

Allison looked back to see him staring at Derek like he was a pot of boiling stew Isaac had been ordered to put his hand in. “You can do that, can't you?” She encouraged.

“Yeah,” Isaac croaked, unconvinced. “Yeah, I can do that. No problem. No problem at all.” He set Allison's bow aside, very gently, and tentatively approached Derek. He leaned his weight over where the Alpha's snout would be and mumbled “don't kill me, Derek.”

Allison returned to the arrows below her. Sliding her stolen knife from the satchel at her hip, she took a deep breath, and began. She had to cut one handed, holding on with her right, while she dug inartfully at Derek's wound with her left. The Alpha whimpered piteously, his hide rippling under her legs with every haphazard slice and the whole process became even more appalling when the flesh around his wound kept trying to close itself. Sweat beaded on Allison's brow and she cut, and cut and cut until finally, when Derek's hide seemed too traumatized to heal, she managed to pull out the first arrow. She stuck it between her teeth, while Derek's ugly wound closed, and then moved onto the next arrow, repeating the ugly procedure.

She’d just freed it when Isaac called up. “Allison! Someone's coming.”

She froze, heart rabbiting in her chest, and looked around. The sun had climbed high in the sky, and was beating down on the dry, purple heather with a chill that was very out of place for summer. From her vantage point atop Derek she could see most of the amphi-theater where he'd fought Greyback, and some of the gorge beyond. Only now did she realize that made her just as visible to whoever was stalking them. She swore.

“Isaac, my bow. Throw me my bow!”

It sailed over Derek's shoulder and she caught it, nocking the arrow she'd just dug out of Derek's hide to her string, and sighting along the shaft for intruders. Her hands, slick with Derek's blood, and her hips all out of alignment for proper archery stance. This was really going to hurt tomorrow.

There they were. Two men hiking towards them over the treacherous debris. They were too far away to make out faces, but they stopped when they saw Allison. She must have made quite a picture, she smiled bitterly. One lone girl astride a colossal beast with bow and arrow.

In her last assignment for school Allison did a paper on Jehanne de Montfort, defending her town at the siege at Hennebont. The countess had donned armor, and encouraged women to slash their skirts and take safety into their own hands. Allison didn't feel much like a french heroine right now, but she hoped she looked it.

If these men, wizards or werewolves, or god knew what, saw her as the frightened little girl who always ran into a corner with her teddy bear, they were as good as dead. She wished the cold certainty she been consumed with after her mother's death would return. She'd made horrible mistakes with it, but at least she hadn't been scared.

One of the men raised his arms in the classic pose of surrender, and Allison aimed for his heart.

“Allison, wait,” Isaac said. “There's something...” he broke off, and from the corner of her eye she saw him raise his nose, sniffing. “I know him,” Isaac whispered shocked. “It's Boyd!”

“Who's that with him?” Allison gulped, keeping her bowstring taught.

“I don't know,” Isaac backed toward Derek, unsheathing his claws. What if Boyd had been captured by a wizard? Derek was moving under her, rocking like a ship in trouble, but he was too hurt and wouldn't be going anywhere. She was waiting for Boyd to be grabbed, or shot, or stabbed, and every moment that he wasn't made her stomach curl and her fingers clutch that much tighter at her bow. Her aim never wavered, until Boyd reached them and looked up at her, his bomber jacket ripped, and handsome face the picture of irony.

“Guess I shouldn't be surprised to get an arrow in the face for hello,” Boyd nodded at her.

“Sorry,” Allison stuttered, easing back the string. She was a little too shocked that it was really Boyd, and the man in tweed beside him, she knew him too.  

“Hello again,” he bowed his head, speaking softly.  

“Hi,” she gaped, dumbly.

“You know this guy?” Isaac looked at him suspiciously.

“He umm, he saved me and Stiles, on the bluff last night.”

“And I don't believe we were ever introduced. My name is Lupin. Remus Lupin.”

“Allison,” she replied. It was very odd to be exchanging names like this, as if they were about to have tea on a battlefield. Lupin didn't look surprised to see them, but then, perhaps he was a werewolf too and heard them from miles away. He was a very soft spoken man, for a werewolf. Soft all around with his faded robe, and pleasant face marred by red scratches. He had the air of an eccentric librarian, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Allison instantly liked him.

“And you must be the Alpha,” Remus said in a wondrous tone. Derek growled as Lupin crouched before him, and made a passable attempt at inching away, taking Allison with him, but he collapsed in seconds with an indignant rumble. Lupin had his hands up and looked quite worried that Derek would hurt himself.

“His name's Derek,” Boyd supplied.

“Yes, Derek Hale. Of the old Healhs.” Lupin rubbed hands over his threadbare tweed. “Well, it's a pleasure. I only wish we could have met under better circumstances. This is all a lot worse than I'd hoped, though less dire than I feared.” He looked up at the sky with the leering green skull floating above them. “That's not saying much, I suppose.”

“You’re a step ahead us,” Isaac sniped. “Who are you anyway? One of them?” He waved at the burned out camp, and the remnants of Greyback's once tawdry show of cutthroats.

“In a manner of speaking,” Lupin replied, sadly. “Its all rather complicated, and I'm afraid Alpha Hale has made it more so.”

“Well, un-complicate it.” Isaac demanded.

Lupin calmly laced his fingers together, looking up at agitated teen.

“Mr. Hale killed Greyback.” Lupin looked at all of them, but when they remained blank faced, he continued patiently. “Traditionally all Fenrir had now falls to Derek, his power, his land, his people. Though given how many have been rounded up by Aurors, I don't know how much of the pack is left to inherit.

“That could be a good thing, for us” Isaac said. He'd looked queasy at the idea of sharing Derek with the thugs from last night.

Remus shook his head. “It makes you vulnerable. Greyback's authority isn't the only thing passed on to a new Alpha. Derek will have his debts too. Which, I'm afraid, means you've been left holding the proverbial stink bag. Greyback was in bed with some very bad people, and they'll be looking to protect their investment.”

“Are you saying Derek just offed Al Capone?” Isaac cracked, incredulity written on his severe face.

“Sorry?” Remus looked confused.

“The supernatural Mafia?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. He'll have a lot of people after him. It'd be best if he stayed hidden, for awhile.” Lupin added.

“So what's your angle?” Isaac tilted his head, looking the man up and down. Allison bristled on Lupin's behalf, but didn't step in. She'd been used and abused too much lately, to give the benefit of the doubt as she would have months ago. Lupin's arrival did seem oddly well-timed.

“I only want to help,” the older man said and when Isaac didn't look any less suspicious he continued. “Consider it proof of loyalty, to my new Alpha.”

“He's not _your_ Alpha,” Isaac insisted, with a miserly look. Allison was reminded of a stray mutt, snapping when its food bowl was approached. “Boyd, back me up,” Isaac called, but Boyd wasn't listening. He'd been watching the camp, very still and quiet, as if waiting for something to appear. Something that couldn’t fail to arrive, if he was just patient enough.

“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled, not looking away from the horizon.  

“We shouldn't linger here,” Remus cautioned. “We don't want to be caught with our wands in our pants.”

Strange saying, Allison thought and shared a look with Isaac.

“Yeah, I'm ready to see the last of this place. It smells worse than my old job,” Isaac sniffed. After working in a graveyard, that was saying something, but those bodies hadn't been left out in the sun either. Allison was very glad she didn't have a werewolf's nose.

“You go,” Boyd told them softly. “I'm staying.”

Isaac looked like someone had whacked him with a board.  “What?”

“Erica's still out there,” Boyd answered him. Allison bit her lip.

“And you're what, just gonna wait around for her to show up?” Isaac snapped, anxiety making him vicious.

“It worked for you,” Boyd replied, sneaking a look at Allison, and setting his feet more firmly in the ground.

“She could be anywhere.”

“You know what they tell little kids who get lost?” Boyd mused, “Stay where you are, and your family will find you. If you wander off no one will know where to look. You could miss each other by a mile, or an inch. This is where Erica's going to look for us, so this is where I'm staying.”

“And what if she's dead?” Isaac barked, his eyes a little wild. “What if her body is lying out there with all the others and your waiting does nothing?”

“Then I'll bury her, when I finally smell her.”

“When you smell her rotting you mean,” Isaac hissed. He looked near tears, sweating and shaking with pent up nerves. Something was wrong, Allison thought with a frown. Isaac wasn't usually this on edge. Moody and callous sure, but he looked like he was coming apart at the seams right now. Given her recent breakdown she could hardly point fingers but it seemed off. It was as if Isaac's fear had been ramped up to ten.

A cloud drifted over the sun and the sky turned dim. Allison shivered, suddenly very cold.

“Shhh,” Lupin instructed, and they fell silent, as if in class. “Oh Merlin,” he whispered. “They're early.”

“Who?” Allison, asked, looking around.

“The Ministry. They’ll scour the area for stragglers. It's standard practice after a raid this size, I'd just hoped we'd have more time.”

“I don't see anything,” Allison declared, and shivered again in the rising chill.

“There,” Isaac pointed a trembling finger up the hill, where the crest of the gorge met a bank of dark clouds. He backed up, hitting Derek's side. Allison squinted, but still saw nothing.

“What is that?” Boyd's pupils had blown wide, and there was a twitch in his jaw.

“The foulest creatures on earth. Quickly now.” Lupin was waving at them all to huddle together and Allison, bemused, slid off Derek's back, hitting the ground with a thud. “How many of you can apparate?” Lupin was asking. “If we all take a grip we might be able to side-along Mr Hale as he is.”

“Apparate?”

“Side-along?”

The teens all looked at him, lost, then Isaac and Boyd cast fearful looks over their shoulder at the clouds. Lupin studied them all, especially Allison and her bow, and seemed to reach a conclusion which left him feeling ill, for he put a hand over his mouth and shut his eyes. Then he gathered himself again with a ragged breath.

“Well,” he declared, “There's nothing for it then, you'll have to run.”

“What about Derek?” Isaac choked, refusing to move.

Lupin pulled a thin wand from his coat pocket. “I'll do my best to move him, you three need to go. Don't stop, and don't let them catch you.”

“But--”

“Go, now!” Lupin growled sharply at them, and they jumped at the unexpected show of teeth. Allison pursed her lips, but obeyed and the three of them ran, stumbling over rocks and purple shrubs while a cold wind chased their heels. Lupin remained behind, making a stand by Derek's side and waving his wand arc over the Alpha, who was trying to crawl to his feet.

Allison was hard pressed to keep up with the boys. Even with her stamina, and her father's training she was no match for a werewolf who could do twenty miles an hour or more. Boyd was in the lead, with Isaac close by, and every step left Allison further and further behind.

Then she tripped. Her foot sank in the peat, dragging her down and she cracked her head in the fall. Her bow hit the earth and bounced, her quiver and arrows fell off her shoulder, and she rolled over, looking for pursuers.

“Allison!” Isaac yelled, and then he too stumbled and fell. She saw him scramble back, as if something dreadful was looming over him, and curl into the ground with hands over his face. Boyd had turned back for them, and was struggling with shoulders up and head down as if marching into a gale. Ever the rock in a troubled sea.

Allison’s tugged feebly at her ankle while the invulnerability she'd been missing returned to her. Only this time it was far more potent. She began losing things. First went her excitement and adrenaline. She grew tired, and lay back in the mud as breathing became a great chore. Her grief turned from a sharp tack, into something dull and grey. One emotion after another slipped from her, like change being lifted from her mind by a pickpocket.

She felt a slimy hand grab her chin and tilt her face up. She couldn't see anything but empty air, but still heard a rattling breath like winter in a skeleton's ribcage. Ice formed on her cheeks, and she curled numb fingers on the handle of her knife, thinking about the weight she'd been carrying since her mother died. She'd often wished she could shoot down her feelings, like she had Boyd and Erica, because that was something she understood.

I guess I finally got my monster she thought, lips turning blue as the last spark of her life began to rise in her throat. She gripped her knife tightly, a final flash of anger lighting in her, like a match stuttering in the dark. Then she used everything she had to stab upward.

A horrible scream tore the air. Something above writhed on her knife and she held on, pushing harder and reveling in the awful crunch as she twisted her blade. It was satisfying, as if she was taking revenge on her own mind for trying to kill her with misery.

Her knife jerked as the invisible monster pulled off, and she fell back. The sky spun above her in a dull swirl, and she saw Boyd's face for a moment before everything went black.


	8. Lydia, Scott

Considering the grungy standard so far, Scott was surprised he could be disappointed by anything in Knockturn Alley, but their first stop was exactly that, a disappointment. The garment shop was less of a store and more of a lean-to wagon, with hand prints and nasty drawings on the side. It was hitched against a building called Moribunds. The garments turned out to be rags, and the entire place smelled like formaldehyde and antiseptic. As if someone had tried to bleach out the history in the second hand clothes.

The proprietor was happily trading Peter clean garments for their muddy things and cooing over Scott's converse sneakers like they were treasures. Something about Muggle artifacts. Anyway, it seemed to make up for not selling the man any blood, which Peter had adamantly refused, to Scott's great relief.

They had to change in a tiny, curtained stall which sprung up with a wave the owner’s wand. Peter had told them not to stare, or look surprised by anything, and if they were lucky everyone would assume they were wizards too.

“These people really take vintage chic to a new level.” Lydia said, flipping through the racks with the same concerted effort he'd seen Allison put into assembling weapons. Scott stayed out of her way, grabbing the first thing he saw in a crate.

However, when he emerged dressed in a purple and orange robe Lydia shoved him back in the stall with a horrified look, and ordered him to 'take this seriously'. Scott didn't see the problem. The robe was cheap, and some wizards in the alley had been dressed much weirder. One woman had been wearing a giant vulture for a hat.  

“This isn't Macy's” Scott protested, wiping his face with a rag that stank of vinegar while Lydia thrust items past the curtain, careless of his undressed state.

“That's no excuse.” She arched an admiring eyebrow at his chest and limped off, leaving him blushing. “If we're going to be in disguise it should at least be a good one. I'm not getting arrested by these crazy people for being with a Barnum and Baily reject.”

In the end, Scott was dressed more or less normally, except in place of jeans and cotton, he had leather, linen, laces and boots. They felt awkward on his feet, and he kept scuffing one toe on his leg. Lydia came out looking somber in a dark green dress, and Peter had taken lavish, if slightly faded, robes with deep pockets. He looked like a disgraced Earl hard up on his debts.

Scott was about ask “what now,” when he caught Peter watching a spooky shop across the way. The creaking sign read Borgin & Burkes: confidential valuation services and unusual artifacts. Scott instantly had a bad feeling about it.

“We should go,” he said, taking Lydia's hand, and looking down the street. “Find out where we are.”

“Not just yet,” Peter hummed. “I smell--”  

“What?” Scott asked, not sure he wanted to know.

“Opportunity.” Peter nodded at the shop, then strode across the cobbled alley without a second glance.

“Peter -- damn it.” Scott moaned and hurried after him. “Wait.” He grabbed Peter, pulling him to a halt on the doorstep of Borgin & Burkes. “You can't do that. You can’t just run off. If we're in this together, we need to work together.”  

“Of course, Scott.” Peter lowered his voice below human hearing. “How exactly, in the numerous times I've saved your life recently, have I failed to work for you.”

“I said, _with_ , not for.” Scott gave him a dubious look. “And you make more trouble than you solve. Besides, it's not like you saved us for no reason.” Just because he didn't know what Peter's reasons were yet, didn't mean he had none. Peter never did anything that wasn't in his own interest. The corner of Peter's mouth turned up, pleased, and Scott narrowed his eyes.

Sure, Peter didn't have them in chains, but he had gotten them lost in a strange, dangerous world, and conveniently become their only reliable ally. Which made him indispensable. The fact Peter seemed to know his way around, more or less, was not lost on Scott, and after seeing an officer brought down by boils Scott was too wary to run away with Lydia. Especially since he’d have to carry her. He was pretty sure Peter had bet on that.

“Can't we just leave? This is a bad place.” Scott argued.

“No, this is the best place,” Peter leaned in, smiling, and Scott really didn't like that look on him. “Everything we need is at our fingertips. We just have to grab it.”

“Like what? What are you looking for?” Scott waved up at the sign above.

“Something to make you an Excalibur. You want to go home, and I'd say this is the best place to start.”  

Scott hesitated.

“It can't be any worse than some of the ditches we've been in lately,” Lydia snapped, looking around the street. “Just make up your minds. People are staring.”  

Peter, of course, chose to go in and Scott followed with a sigh.  

The shop was dimly lit with old gas lamps. Tottering cases displayed an array of gruesome curiosities, including a severed hand, and a dozen eyes rolling on a candelabra, which watched them as they tiptoed past. One of them winked at Scott, and his heart crawled up to hide in his throat. Lydia was squeezing his hand as Peter ambled toward the back of the shop, where a gravelly voice was warbling.

 

_“Rickety-tickety-tin,_

_One morning in a fit of pique,_

_She drowned her father in the creek._

_The water tasted bad for a week,_

_And we had to make do with gin, with gin_

_We had to make do with gin.”_

 

“I changed my mind” Lydia croaked. “This is much worse than a ditch. We should go.”

Which of course was exactly when Peter rang the bell on the counter, and a musical chime fluttered through the shop. The rough singing stopped, and a tiny old man with bushy eyebrows came out from behind a curtain. He dropped a heavy tome on the bar and Lydia flinched when it hit.

“The office of International Magical Cooperation is seven fireplaces away, at least,” the man sneered.

“I'm not looking for a tourist agency,” Peter countered, matching the man’s contempt like a fencer parrying swords.  

“Apologies,” the old proprietor said, not sounding the least bit sorry. “I assumed you were lost.”

A tiny bronze spider scuttled across a mantle by Scott's head, and the man shot it with a wave of his wand, leaving the burnt insect curling in on itself. Scott jumped, and tried to look like he wasn't as much of an imposter as he suddenly felt like. Peter motioned Scott and Lydia forward with two fingers as if they were errant children. Scott didn't feel like helping Peter, but then considered the crusty remains of the spider and slid obediently up behind him.

“What can I do for you?” The proprietor asked, suspiciously.

“I understand you specialize in rare antiquities. Mr...” Peter trailed off expectantly.

“Burke. Caractacus Burke,” the man introduced himself, looking bored at addressing a man who opened his bargaining with information obtained from the front door. Scott hid a smile. He didn’t like the look of Mr, Burke’s shop, but he did enjoy seeing someone get the better of Peter for once.  

Burke tapped his fingers. “We offer a select clientele certain services, expensive services,” he tacked on, looking at their hastily donned costumes. “And you are?”

“A man of the world, looking for worldly goods, and I have to say, I’m a little disappointed.” Peter glanced around at the selection. “A fine shop like this, in San Francisco, would show a bit more discretion, when it comes to customer information,” Peter goaded.

“I see. What kind of worldly goods did you have in mind?”

“I’m looking for something that can kill a Werewolf.”

“You mean stun,” Scott interrupted. Burke glanced at him sharply, interest suddenly piqued, and Scott twitched, wishing he could fade into the background. Burke’s attention was like having a spotlight on you.

Peter coolly picked up the conversation without missing a beat. “Stun, maim, kill, suck dry, whatever it takes to incapacitate an Alpha.”

Burke hummed, considering. “Rather specific for someone just passing through. Werewolf deterrents are all the rage in Diagon Alley. Have been for years of course, but not many wizards know the difference between one type of werewolf and the next. It hardly matters in any case, an item like that would be highly illegal.”

“Well, my interest is purely academic. I'm writing a paper,” Peter smarmed.

“Of course you are,” Burke curled his lip, and Scott shuffled away as Burke and Peter continued to argue.

Lydia was looking at grim knick-knacks around the store with a slightly dazed look, which Scott didn’t like. She limped around the stacks with a cocked head, as if listening to a tune only she could hear, and Scott tip-toed after her, just in case she needed him. They passed a newspaper on a wobbling tower of books, and Scott stopped when he caught sight of the title.

The Daily Prophet was written up top in bold, curling letters, and beneath that a crisp headline declared “Werewolf Menace Caged! a report by Rita Skeeter.” There was a moving picture of a flaming moor and Scott's stomach dropped, as he gingerly picked up the paper.

_Confidential sources at the Ministry of Magic have informed this reporter that last night a large scale Auror raid was dispatched to the South Downs. There, an unsightly band of rabid monsters had convened in ghastly numbers. Aurors estimate the pack was at least a two hundred strong. Which is a clear violation of law no. 84 of the Werewolf Code of Conduct, passed last month, restricting werewolf assemblies to three animals or less._

Scott skimmed the article, which went on to detail a number of ridiculous laws for werewolves, such as no howling, mandated flea inspections, and eligibility for a wolfsbane potion. That sounded downright poisonous to him. There was a detailed description of the raid, and fire, but no mention of Fenrir Greyback, Derek, or the Alpha fight. Ms. Skeeter did go into great detail about the Auror’s capture of the werewolfs, and the last line caught him, like a hook in the mouth.

_Werewolf offenders are being held at the Ministry of Magic, pending trial and their expected transfer to Azkaban Prison._

Scott’s fist’s clenched, wrinkling the paper, and thinking of Isaac, Allison, Stiles and all the others locked behind bars. They must be so scared.

“Lydia,” he hissed, taking the paper and hurry up to where to she peering at a black book on a pedestal. “Lydia, look at this.” He was pushing the newspaper under her distracted nose, when Burke suddenly shouted at them.

“Don't touch that. The Elden Grimoire is exceptionally temperamental, and far better wizards than you have lost a finger.” The book Lydia was studying shuddered on its stand and she jumped away from it, blinking rapidly. Scott stuffed the newspaper in his jacket, while Burke turned back to Peter, saying. “I know a wealthy individual who may, allegedly, have an item to help your research. Such artifacts rare though, quite rare indeed, and I can't help wondering if you have anything that would my trouble worthwhile?” Burke looked the three of them over in a manner suggesting serious doubt about their financial state.

Smart man, Scott thought. He'd been on the receiving end of that look often with his mom, usually from health insurance providers.

“I'm sure we could come to an arrangement,” Peter smarmed. “I have an eye for rarity.” That was when he leaned toward Burke, as if sharing a secret, and directed his gaze at Scott and Lydia. Scott felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Burke squinted at them, and brought a monocle to his eye.

“Ah! I see what you mean.” His gaze slid past Scott and settled on Lydia with a greedy shine. Her breath caught and she started backing away, as Burke came around the end of his counter. “Her services would be exceptionally valuable.”

Lydia bumped into a table, and sent a pack of stained cards fluttering over the floor. Scott tried to get between them but Peter slid forward and snagged him by the arm. Scott had to pause in his rescue mission to dislodge himself with a grunt.

“She's attached, I'm afraid,” Peter interjected while Scott struggled silently, and Burke used the time to bring his monocled eye up to Lydia's pale face.

“Pity,” Burke muttered. “I might settle for a wail. Tell me, my dear, would you scream for me?”

“Get away from her!” Scott ordered, finally ripping himself from Peter and pushing between Burke and Lydia. She curled, shuddering against his back and muffled her gasps in his jacket.

Burke tsked, and stepped away, cleaning his lense on a delicate handkerchief. “You should teach your children some manners,” he sniped at Peter.

“You're one to talk,” Lydia hissed from behind Scott, and Burke turned sour and little less threatening. He looked more like the flea-market seller who'd gotten short changed then a murderer, now.

“We're leaving,” Scott declared, hugging Lydia to his side.

“Excellent idea,” Peter agreed, amiably. “Why don’t you wait on the curb, and practice your singing.”

“Whatever,” Scott glowered, stifling a sharp reply about Peter keeping his orders to himself. The man’s ego never ceased to amaze him. Peter really thought they'd stick around, after he let that man threaten Lydia. What did he want Burke to think, that he could buy her? One murder victim for sale, and we'll throw in a teenage werewolf half-price?

Scott strode off, angry, and just as he reached the door Peter called after them. “Scott, I’m serious, you have homework, and this is no place for wandering.”

Scott paused, disturbed and Peter turned a loaded stare on him, like he was trying to impart a secret. Burke was listening with a curious face now, and Scott felt a tap at the back of his mind, like paws scratching lightly on a door. He wheeled away from Peter, facing the door gripping the iron knob. The scratching remained, sending shivers down his spine and reminding him of foggy mornings when he woke up in the woods, with no clue how he got there. He nodded quickly at Peter, just to make him stop and rushed outside with Lydia.

The scratching feeling disapeared once Scott shut the door behind him, and he slid down the grimy brick wall to sit a few feet away from Burke’s doorstep. Lydia knelt gingerly beside him, maneuvering her bad ankle. They remained in perfect unison for a minute, her silence complimenting his, as he took deep breaths.

“Peter just did something to you, didn’t he?” Lydia eventually asked, her gaze fixed on the passing wizards on the street. Scott drew up his knees.

“He was in my head,” he whispered, feeling stupid. “He hasn’t done that since… since he came back. I thought he couldn’t anymore, but, I guess I was wrong.”

Lydia stiffened beside him. She understood, of course. They were a matching set, kids with nothing in common but the man who’d hurt them. Still, that meant the world to Scott right now. It wasn’t such a bad basis for friendship, after all, and it was nice feeling like he had someone in his corner when Stiles wasn’t around.

He looked at Lydia, tracing the fall of her red hair and the hint of gold which flared in the sun. Even the gloom of Knockturn Alley couldn’t dumb her down. Then he felt guilty for noticing because admiring Lydia was Stiles’s thing, and Scott was still in love with Allison. Everyday without her felt like an open wound, and he never wanted to replace Allison.

Lydia dropped her head onto his shoulder, and Scott was very aware of how soft her hair was, how strongly she smelled of vinegar and wool, and how warm she was against his side.

“I don’t want to kiss,” he blurted out suddenly, and Lydia shot up, the moment broken.

“Excuse me?” She snapped, eyes flashing.

Scott gulped, suddenly realizing how that sounded. “Umm, what I meant was--”

“I know exactly what you meant. Jackson and I may not have had the epic, romeo and juliet waiting the halls, can’t breathe kind of love you and Allison did, but don’t you dare suggest I didn’t care about him, or, or that what we had did matter. He’s dead Scott!”

“No, I wasn’t--”

“Like I would ever kiss you anyway,” she tossed her hair and Scott got slapped in the face with it.

“You kissed me before,” he mumbled, pulling away. Lydia was like a statue next to him.

“That was different,” she insisted, a little high pitched.

Scott raised disbelieving eyebrows at her, but said, “Okay.”

Lydia opened her mouth, then stopped, like a engine that had just run out of gas. “That’s it. Just okay?”

“I don’t want to fight right now,” Scott replied, honestly. He was tired, and he wasn’t like Jackson. He didn’t get off on competition. This seemed to confuse Lydia.

“Well, it’s lucky you never signed up for debate team,” she finally decided. Scott silently agreed with her. She would’ve cleaned the floor him, and he got enough of that in math. You had to become comfortable with second place, whenever Lydia was in your class.

“So… Singing.” Lydia awkwardly changed the subject. “What did Peter mean by that? You in some sort of Werewolf chorus?”

“Beats me,” Scott shrugged. “I don’t sing. The only time we ever…” Scott trailed off as a thought slid into his brain, like a note being pushed under the door. “The cave,” he mumbled with a shake of his head. “Lydia what happened in the cave?”

“What? How should I know?”

“Well you were there, you heard it didn’t you? Derek and Peter did something when they were humming.”

“Sure, that spell, or whatever it was.”

“But it couldn’t have been a spell,” Scott argued, and leaned closer to Lydia, lowering his voice. “Peter and Derek can’t do magic. Can they?”

“Peter came back from the dead.”

“I know but, all this seems _different_.” Scott fumbled, nodding at the sinister alley, with wizards lugging broomsticks, and jars that breathed fire. It was like some twisted carnival, where all the magic shows were real.

“So, what are you suggesting?” Lydia pushed him, like they were doing one of Mr. Harris’s extra credit logic puzzles.

“Okay well, whatever they did let you, Allison and Stiles out of the cave last night, right?” he checked, Lydia nodded and he plunged ahead. “So, what if they didn’t actually do a spell. What if they broke one?”

“They broke a magic spell by humming.” Lydia looked sceptical. “That sounds like crazy talk.”

“Really,” Scott looked at the alley pointedly. A woman in a squashed conical hat marched by, lugging a wheelbarrow full of three headed lizards with squirrel tails.

Lydia blinked. “Point taken,” she said, acknowledging the madness around them. “But this is still hypothetical. Actually, less than that, because we don’t have enough for a hypothesis,” she insisted.

“So lets make one,” Scott urged.

“By experimenting?” Lydia squinted at him with interest, and Scott nodded, smiling. She was growing calmer the more they talked about science, and stayed away from Peter, Curio Shops, and Kissing.

So with Lydia coaching him Scott croaked his way through a few bars of do, ray, me. Then he self-consciously taught her a spanish lullaby, and Lydia returned the effort with a country ballad. They spent a good hour on the curb, singing, but nothing much happened until Scott tried to hit a particularly low note in a song. It was tickling the back of his throat, like a muted howl, and when a wizard with bloodshot eyes shuffled by, the box that was floating behind him suddenly crashed to the ground.

Scott jerked, startled, and broke off his hum. The wizard swore, and waved his wand at the mess. The box rose again and the wizard bustled away, sparing them both a suspicious a look. They sat in silence, looking at the spot the box had crashed.

“Was that you?” Lydia eventually asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Do it again,” she demanded, focused and looking for information.

“Okay but, woah, wait a minute,” Scott frowned as something new pricked his ears and he leaned into the wall of Borgin and Burke’s. Voices that had been hidden by their attempts to harmonize, were suddenly much clearer. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“There’s someone else in there,” Scott stood with Lydia, who skipped on her sore ankle and the two of them peered into the grimy window of Burke’s establishment.

Inside, between two shelves filled with oddities, Peter stood talking with a new man, Burke hovering at the counter behind them. The man was dressed in elegant robes with long blond hair tied back in a green ribbon and a sharp looking cane in his left hand. He was the same height as Peter, yet somehow managed to look down his nose at him with the expression of a man doing something necessary, but unpleasant.

“Why not leave the matter to someone more expendable?” Peter was saying.

“I do not trust a man who considers himself expendable,” the man replied with a polished sneer.

“Then I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Peter quoted and Scott felt slimy at thought of Peter sharing his mom's love for Casablanca. The blond man did not get the reference and merely gave Peter a tight lipped smile, before shaking his hand and sweeping out of the store.

Scott and Lydia ducked out of the window just in time, as the man came down the porch steps. Scott waved at him, trying to pull of ‘innocent bystander who totally wasn’t listening in on your conversation with the quintessential evil uncle.’ Judging by Lydia’s embarrassed look, and the man’s disgusted face, he didn’t pull it off. Allison always said he was a terrible liar.

The blond strode off, tapping his cane on the alley cobbles, while other wizards hurried out of his way. Peter came out a moment later, looking very smug.

“Who was that?” Scott asked warily, looking after the blond.

“That was Lucius Malfoy. Apparently quite the name around here.”

“What were you talking about?”

“Didn’t listen in, Scott? I’m disappointed. Don’t worry. I just made a little business deal. Something that will get us what we want, and ensure some protection while we’re stuck here. Speaking of deals,”  he rummaged in his pockets and took out a thick red book, with gold etching and handed it to Lydia.

“What is it?” She asked, leaving the book in Peter’s outstretched hand and hugging her elbows.  

“A gift,” he shrugged. “To make up for the unpleasant business with Burke.”

Lydia eyed the book like it would turn into a scorpion, and then spat at Peter’s bribe. “I'm not that cheap."  

“Ah. My mistake,” Peter slid the book back into his robe and walked off, saying they should find a hotel. Scott sighed, hitched Lydia onto his back and followed him. Peter whistled a slippery tune as they walked, and every once and awhile he’d hit a certain pitch, and something magical would break as they passed by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Burke sings is a well known ballad I found, called Rickety-Tickety-Tin.


	9. Erica, Stiles

Noon came as a relief to Percy as he scurried out of the prison hall on Level Ten and past the guard station. Nearby he found his boss, Mr. Scamander, laying on a hastily conjured desk and snoring for all he was worth. Scamander had set up this ad-hoc office when the werewolves were brought in the night before. Normally Walden Macnair would've snatched the case up, but he hadn't come into work today.  
  
Mr. Scamander on the other hand, spent that last thirteen hours running between levels four and two arguing with the Scrimgour and the Auror Department about jurisdiction. So the captured creatures wouldn't be shunted off to Azkaban without due process. The poor man was exhausted, his assistant Dillwater was a nervous wreck, and Percy had been left with all the paperwork. He sighed.  
  
He'd been re-assigned to Scamander, after the debacle with Crouch and shuddered when he'd realized Scamander was only two doors away from the Centaur Office, and the sacking that implied. Percy was clinging tenaciously to the space separating him from that professional death blow. He still believed in the Ministry, and planned to work his way out of the Magical Creatures department. At first this werewolf case seemed like a huge opportunity, and he'd hoped it would be his moment to shine. Maybe get noticed by someone in the Minister's office. Now, he was thoroughly overwhelmed, and on the verge of writing his brother Charlie to come rescue him.  
  
Charlie handled dragons and wouldn't get distracted, like Percy, who couldn't get that american girl out of his mind, with her sad eyes, and blood curdling scream. It wasn't fair. She should be in school, enjoying cockroach clusters and sharing innocent kisses in the astronomy tower. He hoped she hadn't done anything terrible. He hoped she hadn't killed. There'd be no hope for her then.  
  
With a sigh, Percy gathered up his lunch and went in search of Dillwater, to make sure the man wasn't having a smoke in the toilets when he should be working. A raised voice, in the office just beyond the last guardpost, brought Percy up short. He opened the door to find Dillwater looming over young Mr. Bat Man, who sat, oozing off the sides of a wooden chair in an attempt to distance himself from Dillwater's pudgy face.  
  
“Look, I've told you everything!” The boy was insisting. “I swear, I don't know where he is. Not that it matters,” he continued with a nervous wave. “The guy's probably dead anyway.”  
  
“Probably?” Dillwater spat, and the boy wiped spittle from his face with a look of disgust. Dillwater was normally a clean and respectable looking person, but today he was positively sweating. Percy assumed he'd spent the night with Mr. Scamander, and that was why he was such a wreck. He cleared his throat and Dillwater turned, frowning at him.  
  
“What is it Wendel?”  
  
“Weasley, sir.” Percy corrected, yet again. “I have the lists, I thought perhaps--” he stumbled, just shy of asking for help because he was adult now, a professional, and he should really be able to handle it. Something seemed to occur to Dillwater however, because his entire faced lifted into an inspired smile.  
  
“Yes, of course. Excellent idea. I should be dealing with that paperwork, making the rounds you know. You're still new at this, ah, you stay here and look after _this_.” Dillwater waved at the boy, who looked insulted at being referred to as a thing. “I have to... send a letter,” Dillwater mumbled as he gathered up his cloak and wand, and hustled out the door.  
  
“Hey! when do I get my phone call!” Mr. Man yelled.  
  
Dillwater slammed the door shut, and Percy was left in a staring match with the muddy boy, who was jiggling his legs with abandon.

“You can use Dillwater's fire to make a call. If the elf asks for a password its Cranky Cudgels,” Percy said.  
  
Stiles watched the older red-head warily. “So, that's a no on the telephone then,” he finally said, and flopped back in his chair like a limp noodle, muttering, “this has got to be against the geneva convention.”  
  
“I can't imagine why you would need a Phelly-tone, in any case,” Weasely, sniffed. “They only call muggles.” Then he stopped and gaped at Stiles, who squirmed, wondering if he had something on his face. “Are you a muggle?” Weasley exclaimed, horrified.  
  
“Yeah, muddled, that's me. The mediocre sidekick,” Stiles rubbed his forehead.  
  
“You are a muggle. Oh dear.”  
  
Weasley didn't seem to know what to say after that, and Stiles, who still didn't know what a 'muggle' was but was getting very tired of being called that, glared at the opposite wall. It had posters about strip-searching and not hiding wands up your butt. He wanted to go home. He wanted to stop being interrogated and left out of his depth.  
  
“You ever feel like you're just getting swept along in other peoples wake, and trying not to drown?” he asked, picking at the ash smudged into his shirt. He stood and wandered over to a corner where a silver instrument was spinning hypnotically.  
  
“Well, I suppose. Sometimes,” Weasley blinked at him.  
  
“I mean look at me.” Stiles gestured at his dirty shirt and torn up sneakers. “I don't have super-powers, I'm not a magician, my only defense is sarcasm and uncanny ability to dodge, while my life is filling up with werewolves and wizards and lizards, oh my. All I seem to do is disappoint people. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”  
  
“I have some idea, yes,” Weasley mumbled. Stiles sighed and looked away. Then he got distracted by a large bronze helmet. He wandered over, picked it up and buffed the top with his elbow until his morose reflection was shining back at him. He put it on, absently, and then turned to the next shiny thing, which caught his eye.  
  
“You've got a lot of weird stuff in here.”  
  
“Yes, I suppose.” Weasley said, giving him an odd look. “Most it's just antiques from the last goblin rebellion.”  
  
“Goblins? You're kidding,” Stiles choked, and added that to the growing list of critters and creepy crawlies in his life.  
  
“I don't believe I am, no.”  
  
“Great. What's next, mermaids, giants, dragons?” Stiles peered at an array of brass levers next to a plaque that read _'pull only in case of  criminal emergency,'_ and a faded diagram showing open cell doors.  
  
 “All the Dragons are kept in reservations. I'm sure you'll be all right,” Weasley was saying, his tone aiming for reassurance that somehow fell flat on Stiles ears. “Once we sort everything here, the department will obliviate you and send you home.”  
  
Stiles pulled up short. “Obliviate?” He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.  
  
“Oh yes,” Weasley warmed to his subject. “They'll make you forget all this. So, it won't bother you anymore, and you can have your life back just the way it was.”  
  
Stiles fingers stopped dancing and his feet grew still. “Just the way it was?” he repeated in a dry voice.  
  
“Yes,” Weasley beamed, sounding proud.  
  
Stiles thought about that. How many times had he and Scott wished they could go back in time? How often had he wanted to be the leader again, like he used to be, instead feeling left behind? It was terrible to have your world turn upside down like theirs had. At first, Stiles was thrilled because Scott turning into a mythical creature was so damn cool. Until he tried to kill Stiles. Then it wasn't cool anymore, it was horrifying. Now he was being offered a way out of the madness.  
  
He could go home. He'd show up on his dad's doorstep safe and sound, and he'd never have to be afraid again. It was tempting. It felt awful being the guy that left others behind, but if they made him forget than he wouldn't even know he'd done it. Would he? Stiles wouldn't remember to feel like a coward or traitor when he looked in the mirror. He'd never know what he missed. The idea, which he wanted to be comforting, made him want to throw up in his mouth.  
  
“You know,” he croaked, licking his lips and staring at the lever's on the wall. “I once made a catapult out of rubber bands and bubble gum just to get out of detention. Maybe its one of those growing up things, but rubber bands aren't cutting it anymore, and somehow I don't think a spell will change that. Forgetting about werewolves won't make econ tests easier, it won't make my dad safe, and it won't save Scott. Nothing would really be like it was anyway, because he wouldn't be the same, and I'm not same. I just wouldn't know that anymore.”  
  
He'd thought nothing could feel worse than being useless. Now he knew, losing his identity would be infinitely worse. He laid a hand on the first brass lever.  
  
“What are you doing?” Weasley asked nervously, and Stiles slammed his fist down, pulling the lever with it. Weasley shouted in alarm and pulled out his wand. Stiles turned to face him with both hands in the air. A dark calm filled his heart, while a deep grinding noise rumbled through the office and quills shook in their pots. Alarms started blaring through the walls, and far away whoops of surprise and triumph reached them, as all the cell doors on the prison level slid open.  
  
“Sorry dude,” Stiles told the older boy, who was looking at him with horror, his wand shaking. “but I don’t want a special pass. I can't forget. I owe her, and I owe myself.”  
  
“You... you” Weasley sputtered, the blood draining from his face as the noise of howls, and thundering feet came closer. “You've just... this is a terrorist act!”  
  
Stiles let his hands drop, wondering if he would feel the spell hit him this time, or if he would simply keel over. Maybe he'd die now. Maybe they'd take his memories anyway and he'd wake up a completely different person, who wouldn't see the beautiful, terrible magic around him.  
  
Instead, he heard a harsh bang and the office door flew open, hitting the wall and hanging half off it's hinges. Dozens of bodies were pushing past in the corridor beyond, and Erica stood in the doorway with fresh blood on her shirt and glowing eyes.  
  
“Red,” Stiles croaked, backing up and bumping into the lever's behind him. “Erica, your eyes--”  
  
He didn't finish. Percy was turning to aim at her, and Erica struck like a rattler. She was across the room, and had Weasley on Dillwater's desk, with a hand on his throat and knee at his groin, before Stiles had blinked. Weasley's wand skittered across the floor and Erica's lips pulled up in a warning snarl.  
  
“Whoa, no!” Stiles cried, lunging forward, only to pull up short when Erica leveled those red Alpha eyes on him. God, when had that happened? He backed up, feeling like he was looking at something that had forgotten humanity. He suddenly recalled that Erica hadn't been a werewolf for long, and she'd never found an anchor like Scott. Are you even in there? he thought wildly, and wished he had a fire extinguisher handy.  
  
“Shut up, Stiles,” Erica hissed, tightening her grip.  
  
Weasley gurgled, pawing uselessly at her hand.  
  
“Erica, let him up,” Stiles tried.  
  
“Not a chance. He wanted to lock us up, like animals, and now he's gonna be our ticket out of here.”  
  
“What are you gonna do? Kill him?” Stiles squawked, thinking about how screwed up his survival instinct must be by now, to be arguing with a werewolf who didn't look all there.  
  
“If I have to,” she hissed without flinching.  
  
“Erica, this isn't you--” Stiles tried, putting a hand out. She was supposed to be his classmate, just a girl he used to laugh at in gym.  
  
“What do you know about me? Huh? I'm whatever I need to be. Now get up!” She ordered Weasley, hauling him along by the neck.  
  
“I can't let you just kidnap him,” Stiles protested feebly.  
  
“Then stay here and hide,” Erica tossed back, dragging Weasley towards the door.  
  
“But...” Stiles looked around the office, its previously comfortable mess now carrying an air of violation. The desk was over-turned, with papers on the floor and dirty boot prints marking their path. He'd already cast die and declared his loyalties. He had to follow where that lead him now. So Stiles took a shaky breath and dashed after her, catching up with Erica as she plunged into the hall with her captive.  
  
There were prisoners everywhere, breaking open office doors and tearing notices off the walls. Erica shoved her way past them. Shrieks came from left and right, as men and women were dragged from their cozy cubicles. It wasn't only werewolves in the crowd anymore either. Stiles saw a tiny scarred creature with floppy ears riding the shoulders of a furry beast with horns and the face of an old woman. Some of them stole the wands off fallen wizards as they made their escape.  
  
They ran past flocks of paper memos flying the air, and through a dark room with high seats and ominous podiums, surrounding a wooden chair with heavy chains trailing over the floor. Stiles shuddered at the awful sight, and hurried on.  
  
When they reached a golden elevator at the end of the floor, Erica pushed inside, facing down a tattooed man who tried to get in first. He took one look at her eyes and crumbled, backing away. Erica shoved Weasley in and his face hit the far wall, while his glasses fell to the ground, trampled by the mob shoving their way in beside them.  
  
Stiles tried pushing the brass buttons on the wall, numbered one through ten, but the elevator didn't move. It only shook slightly and declared in a cheerful voice that “The ministry of magic has locked the courtrooms for security. Please contact your supervisor for assistance.”  
  
“Take us out,” Erica ordered Weasley  
  
“I can't possibly--” Weasley began and Erica slammed his face into the wall again. Stiles winced in sympathy, remembering the many times when his face had met an unfriendly locker.  
  
“Do it! Or you die right here,” Erica declared. Some of the creatures in the elevator were grinning, others were shrinking away, and outside more were trying to force their way in. “Someone close the gate!” Erica shouted, and a woman with bats in her hair pulled them shut, against the protests beyond. Stiles slid down and grabbed Weasley's discarded glasses, getting his hand stomped on in the process. He bit his lip as he stood up, suffering more kicks and jabs in the crowded space.  
  
“Kill me, if thats what you want, but I won't help criminals escape,” Weasley told Erica bravely from behind his bruised cheeks.  
  
“Spare me your fucking nobility,” Erica, looking around the crush of bodies. “If we don't get out of here, we'll all be crushed anyway.” Weasley was unmoved, and she tried again, this time with desperation in her voice, “Please. I don't want to die.”  
  
“Neither do I,” Weasley gulped.  
  
That was when a scream ripped through the crowd, and someone in the hallway warned, “Dementors!”  
  
A breath of cold, rotten air blew into the elevator and Stiles gasped, feeling his heart constrict in the familiar signs of a panic attack. He struggled, feeling the world fade and somewhere, far off, he thought he could here his mothers voice talking about her hair falling out and how she didn't want Stiles to know.  
  
“Expecto Patronum!” A silver wisp of light darted out of the quickly darkening elevator, and the cold abated somewhat. Then Weasley was pulling open a panel in the lift, and punching a button labeled Dire Need.  
  
The same cheerful voice from before, asked for an employee code, and Weasley rattled off something like “pinky pigwidgeon's parliament.” It was very incongruous next the screaming outside, and the quickly returning chill that was sapping all feeling from Stiles heart. Erica was shaking beside him, holding herself and chanting “don't seize, don't seize. Oh god, don't seize, and don't fucking look at me!”  
  
Then there was a jerk, a rattle, and the lift began moving. Stiles leaned against the wall for support as his limbs turned to jello in relief, and warmth began returning to his body. There was a painful silence as the lift trundled upward and everyone collected themselves. Erica was clutching her elbows so hard her knuckles were white.  
  
Weasley stood at the door, looking determined, and said. “Now when this lift opens you will all surrender to--”  
  
“Shud-ap,” A beastly man with a missing front tooth punched Weasley soundly in the face. He crumbled, holding his nose with one hand, and Stiles winced.  
  
The cheerful elevator voice announced each floor as they rose. When they reached level one, The Atrium, the elevator ground to a halt. The doors opened and all the prisoners began pushing to get out. They ran for the well lit doorways, and dark hidden corridors beyond the landing.  
  
“Whoa, hey, there's still people down there,” Stiles yelled after them. He tried to catch the sleeves of fleeing men, thinking of the wounded employees on the floors far, far below, and the screams of those still trapped there.  
  
“Erica, help me,” he pleaded, as she got ready to join the escapees. She paused, looked at him, then back at the doors beckoning freedom. There were already yells of shock echoing back, as the first wave of escaping prisoners met whatever lay beyond. Finally she relented, coming back to Stiles with a snarl.  
  
“We have to get the lift moving again,” Weasley declared, as he staggered up with a bloody nose. “If the guards are dead,” he gulped, “then the Dementors will be kissing everyone they can reach.”  
  
“Kissing?” Stiles made a face, and assumed that meant something much worse then a free a tongue in your mouth. Though given the foul stench, it might be a rotten tongue and that would certainly be bad enough.  
  
“Right, stand back,” Weasley said and aimed his wand at the elevator. “I got top marks on my Newts for this.” With a wave the lift dissolved and the doors turned into a puddle of melted, golden goo, before they re-formed into a ladder and dropped down into the waiting hole, where an elevator once traveled. The screams from below were much clearer now, and it sounded like a pit of madness.  
  
“Weasley!” A shocked voice called from behind them. The red-head spun and gaped at the disheveled wizard, standing in the archway to the Atrium and holding a wand on him.  
  
“Sir, I--”  
  
“You're helping this trash, Weasley?” The wizard yelled.  
  
“No, I--”  
  
“Traitor!” The wizard whipped out a curse and it sped toward Weasley in a swirl of orange light. Weasley ducked like a shocked fowl. Stiles almost expected to see feathers flying. “Blood-traitor, just like the rest of your filthy family,” The wizard cast again, and Weasley desperately rolled away.  
  
“Hey, dung-breath!” Stiles yelled, and when the wizard turned toward him with a blank look, Stiles took off his helmet and lobbed it at the guy. There was a satisfying clang as the wizard took the helmet in the face, then crumbled to the floor. Stiles didn't have time to help Weasley up from his sprawl though, because Erica grabbed him by the arm and was racing toward the Atrium.   
  
It was madness there. The ceiling rose up, higher than a cathedral, and banners with the majestic double M were getting torn to shreds by flying spells. Windows were being shattered, the glass falling like a deadly rain on the riot taking place below. Creatures and humans filled the floor. Some were fighting with tooth and claw, some with magic, and others were pummeling with fists and feet. Homey little wizards in suits and briefcases were running away, or trying to. Stiles watched, wide eyed as a man was pulled up by a red-eyed, feral Alpha who bit into his neck like a dog on a juicy stake. It was like seeing a office party get shot up, and Stiles flashed back to the night his dad's police station was massacred. That was what he'd brought to these people.  
  
Erica pushed him around, until they had a stone pillar between them and the worst of the fighting.  Behind them, more prisoners were running into the atrium, and Stiles could feel a chill wind urging them on from the Elevator landing.  
  
“We can't stay here!” he yelled over the din.  
  
“There's nowhere to go,” Erica shouted back. “I can't--” then she stopped, nose in the air like she'd caught a scent, and Stiles prayed it was fresh air that could lead them to safety. “Hold on,” she said, then dug her claws into the column and heaved herself up. Stiles, watched in awe as she climbed the pillar, using her claws like stone picks, until she was a head above the crowd. She took a quick look and then dropped down again.  
  
“Did you see a way out?” Stiles asked, and felt faint when she nodded.  
  
“Someone just shot a hole in the far wall.”  
  
“The far... we can't cross that!” Stiles hollered, waving at the riot spanning the whole floor between them and freedom.  
  
Erica turned on him, eyes like embers and Stiles felt his protests die on his lips. The noise of the riot seemed to fade until all he heard was her breath. “I can make it,” she whispered, and despite all his common sense, Stiles believed her. “Are you coming?” she asked, and he nodded, numbly. “Then hold onto me,” she growled and turned her burning eyes back to the gauntlet they had to cross. Stiles breathed, feeling like he'd been released from a vice, and before he could second guess himself he laced his fingers through hers and ran.  
  
Erica shoved her way past one body, and then another, and another. She didn't let him fall, and she didn't hold back. They were getting hit with every step, and Stiles wasn't sure if they would make it, since Erica's fierce gaze wasn't telling him so.  
  
Halfway across, they had to stop at the base of a statue for cover as a volley of spells flew bast them, and battered the hapless crowd on either side. Bits of stone flew up in splinters of debris, and Stiles ducked, covering his head with Erica while people around them screamed. They tried to move around the side, but every time they left cover another ray of spells would be fired.  
  
“We can't go around!” Stiles yelled, holding onto Erica's sleeve.  
  
She looked up at the statue covering them, a maudlin art piece showing a Centaur and several others creatures looking adoringly up at a human wizard in robes. “We'll have to go over then,” she declared.  
  
“Over? Are you crazy? You'll be a target for every--” Stiles voice got drowned out by another clash of fighting and Erica kept her eyes fixed on the beam of daylight spearing the mob. She leaped onto the base of the statue, and Stiles had to follow her. A shooting spell barely missed him, and he tucked himself under the girth of the stone centaur while Erica threw her weight against the statue that was blocking their way to freedom.  
  
She bared her fangs, straining. The statue rocked on it's base and then, slowly, toppled. The stone wizard and it's worshiping creatures fell into the crowd, centaur and all. Chunks of stone broke off, and the statue snapped in half. For a moment, Erica was haloed in the light of flashing spells and distant sun, bent over the toppled symbol like a vengeful fury. A jubilant howl rose over the crowd and was soon joined by more voices, sing in a rebellious crescendo that shook the Atrium's foundations. Then a bright white flash went off in front of Erica and she shrieked, falling back into Stiles with hands over her eyes. Stiles grabbed her, and hauled them both off the stone pedestal, guiding Erica as best he could as she blinked teary, unseeing eyes.  
  
Stiles could never say, after that day, how they got through the rest of Atrium. Erica was blind and he was lost, but together they somehow reached the rubble of the broken wall, and brick by brick climbed their way into the sun. Then they fled into the city streets beyond, a stream of other prisoners scattering behind them.  



End file.
